


Cupid 97 (This ain't your Hallmark Cupid)

by aeroport_art



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angsty Schmoop, Fluff and Angst, Jealousy, M/M, Obliviousness, Sarcasm, cupid!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-15
Updated: 2007-10-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 03:02:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeroport_art/pseuds/aeroport_art
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everybody's got a love/hate relationship with their jobs. But for Jensen Ackles, top Cupid in the nation, after a hit goes wrong it's just a long, downhill slide from there. Caution: an ungodly amount of swearing, sarcasm, and schmoop in which Chris Kane is an awesome best friend, Tom Welling's the vacuous son of Zeus, Rosenbaum is Rosenbaum, and Jensen has a penchant for Plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for spn_fairytales. My challenge/inspiration was [The Saucy Boy](http://hca.gilead.org.il/saucy_bo.html) by Hans Christian Andersen. Thanks to mooyoo, insomnia_geek and gestaltrose for the betas! You guys kick butt.

“Your list for the day, Cupid.” 

Behind a large mahogany desk, a woman with long blonde hair, face aged but beautiful, jots down a couple notes into her yellow lined notepad, then rips the page out and slides it over to the man opposite her. The man—Jensen Ackles, 97th Cupid of the Bureau of Amorous Affairs (BAA)— plucks the sheet up and proceeds to scan it, frown deepening the more he reads.

“Eighteen targets today? What do you think I am, a machine?”

“That’s ‘Venus’ to you, C-97,” the woman scolds. Her name is Samantha Ferris but she is known as Venus, the proper title of a district manager at the BAA—in this case, the fine district of Los Angeles. She continues, “And no you’re not a machine, but you’re the best Cupid we’ve got on the West Coast, so get to it. Lotta lovin’ to get done before the weekend.”

Jensen sighs and pockets the paper. “Yes ma’am,” he mock salutes before heading back out the large oak doors.

 _Shit, eighteen of these guys?_ he grumbles to himself on the ride down the elevator, pulling the crumpled sheet out again to read Samantha’s (correction, _Venus’_ ) blue-ink scrawl in more depth.

_1\. Sandra McCoy (27). Ralph’s Grocery Co, 9:47 AM_

This seems like a common enough way to start the day: staking out public grounds for a woman in her mid-twenties, whereupon he’ll shoot her through the heart with one of the Bureau’s specially prepared bullets, which are made and imprinted in pairs. The target’ll see nothing, feel nothing—at least, not until the partner bullet has pierced her future lover’s heart, courtesy of the Cupid behind the smoking gun.

What, you pictured cherubs with bows and arrows? This ain’t your Hallmark Cupid, kid.

Jensen loosens his silver tie as he idly skims the rest of the day’s targets, annoyed that even with the Bureau’s new management, they hadn’t bothered to implement picture IDs for the target briefings. Guess it’s still up to them to find the right targets with just a name, age, and location. That, and a whole lot of creativity. Picture IDs would’ve been fucking awesome but hey, the bigwigs never read the damned suggestion boxes.

“It’s a matter of funding,” somebody pipes up next to him, uncomfortably near in the small space of the elevator (Jesus, Jensen hadn’t even noticed he wasn’t alone). “The Bureau just upgraded the firearms and bullet tip formulae, so they didn’t have room in the budget for much else this year.” Jensen turns around and finds none other than Tom Welling, Zeus’ very own son, smiling at him with vaguely vacant blue eyes.

“Hey, you’re Tom Welling,” Jensen states, his irritation replaced by surprise. “You’re here already?”

“That’s C-148 while we’re on duty,” Tom says smartly, puffing his chest out where his shiny new Cupid pin rests on an immaculate lapel. “Well, I wasn’t supposed to be here until the end of the month, but I just couldn’t wait,” he admits, smiling beatifically. The elevator dings and a couple more bodies shift inside as Jensen blinks in horror.

“Pick of the crop kid, and you choose a crap job like being a Cupid?” Jensen asks incredulously. “What’s wrong with you?”

“It’s an honor to uphold one of the oldest traditions and responsibilities of the immortals…” Tom recites, and Jensen rolls his eyes because dude, everybody had to read that shit in the beginner’s manual but ain’t nobody in the building actually _believes_ in it. “…and… there’s kind of this person,” Tom finishes lamely. Aha.

Tom talks his ear off for the rest of the ride down the building’s twenty-nine floors, and when they reach the lobby with a loud churning of gears, Jensen hops out gratefully.

“Nice meeting you, C-97!” Tom calls out.

“It’s Jensen,” he mutters, automatically looking up at the large wall clock above the receptionist’s desk. “Shit,” he curses as he realizes how late it is.

He’s too busy mentally mapping a route to his first location to notice the clomp of shoes jogging up behind him, only looking up when somebody falls in step next to him. “Hey Jen, was that Zeus’ kid just now? What’s he doing here?”

Jensen perks up when he sees it’s his friend and fellow Cupid, Christian Kane; a tall brunet with sleepy blue eyes. “Yeah, that was Tom Welling,” Jensen says. “It’s his first day here.” When Chris eyes him disbelievingly, he explains, “He wanted to be a Cupid ‘cause he’s in love with a girl working here, or some shit like that.”

“Ironic. I think I just threw up a little,” Chris says, wrinkling his nose as Jensen mirrors the sentiment. You don’t spend your entire career in professional matchmaking (in Los Angeles, of all places) without becoming just a little—or, in their case a _lot_ — sarcastic. 

“Tomorrow’s Friday, man. That’s all I got to keep me going,” Jensen says as he holds the front door out for Chris. They step down the innocuous entryway before parting in different directions.

“I’ll see you at Great Lakes after work!” Chris calls as he backpedals towards his car.

“After work,” Jensen confirms, slapping his hand on the hood of his own car before popping the door open and sliding in.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” he says to himself. _No one else is gonna give these kids a Hollywood ending._

 

**C-97 (This ain’t your Hallmark Cupid)**

 

It’s a relatively quick drive to the other side of town, and it doesn’t hurt that immortals don’t have to stay on the ground, strictly speaking. With the shift of a gear, Jensen easily maneuvers his RAV4 into the air and smugly joins the rest of the immortal commuters as they flow above traffic, invisible to the human eye.

With just a little bit of speeding, Jensen gets to Ralph’s at 9:45 AM on the dot. 9:46 sees him hovering around the grocery store registers, peeking at people’s credit cards and eavesdropping on conversations for any sign of a “Sandra McCoy.” By 9:47 Jensen’s getting desperate so he stakes out the exit and determinedly finds out the name of every woman who looks like she could be 27 years old, give or take a decade.

By 9:51 AM, four minutes past the time listed for this location, Jensen’s swearing up a storm because the girl could be _anywhere_ by now, and he didn’t stick with the BAA for six years only to ruin his spotless record by some run-of-the-mill, oblivious mortal—

“Sandy!”

—Jensen stutters to a halt before swinging around in search of the owner of the voice. Lucky for him, this “Sandy” is doing the same thing about ten meters away, the petite, dark-haired girl (dammit, he’d taken her for 14, maybe 15 tops) locating her friend and waving her over.

Jensen breathes a sigh of relief, reaching into his jacket to pull out the Bureau’s newly issued HK handgun from its leather holster. Here comes the easy part.

He gives the new gun a little inaugural ceremony as he feels out the weight in his palm, tossing it from hand to hand before slowly and smoothly releasing the safety. The audible _click_ serves as more than enough for a warm-up so in consideration for the next seventeen hits on the day’s list, Jensen foregoes the fanfare and gets down on one knee in the middle of the parking lot, aims, and fires.

Sandra starts a little as the bullet pierces her back but the moment passes without so much as a hiccup in the girls’ conversation. Jensen’s not worried; he hasn’t missed a shot since his rookie days and he knows the bullet’s already busy working its magic. In fact, Sandra’s already in love, she just doesn’t know it yet—won’t know until the bullet in her palpitating heart meets its twin; the next bullet lined up in the HK’s magazine clip.

Jensen tucks the gun back into his holster and pulls out his list, runs a finger down… ah, yes. Jared Tristan Padalecki, the lucky suitor, should be entering the parking lot in just a few minutes. Glancing back at Sandra, Jensen verifies that she’s not going anywhere anytime soon, then gets up and begins circling the grounds as he keeps an eye out for a 25-year old male and an ear out for the right name.

It’s easier finding the target this time, seeing as how the guy literally runs into him while talking on his phone (as Jensen’s jostled off to the side, thankful for modern-day magic that protects him from being seen or noticed by mortals). Jensen hears a snatch of a woman’s voice through the phone confirming he’s got the right man as he faintly hears “JT, honey? Jared?” Pleased, Jensen opens his jacket front when just then, the guy stops in his tracks.

Actually _stops_ before turning around to look back at where Jensen’s frozen still, one hand guiltily reaching for his gun. _What the…?_ Jensen panics as Jared’s eyes slit in suspicion, searching the thin air, before he shakes his head a little and keeps walking towards the entrance of the grocery store.

Jensen’s thrown by it. He furrows his brow as he thinks… nope, that’s the first time a human had ever blinked twice at something he did, whether pick-pocketing an ID card or full on shoving a person towards another (which he doesn’t like to do too often; it’s a little uncouth, though it does get the job done). Huh.

Dazedly, Jensen starts trailing off towards his car to move on with his day, when he realizes— _shit_ —he hadn’t even shot the guy yet! He mentally smacks himself before dashing into the store, cursing because damn it, it’s so much harder to get a clear shot when the job’s indoors and in a busy area.

He finds Jared somewhere between the soup and spices near the back of the store, but everything’s in such damned close quarters that he can’t get the distance he needs. For some technical reason that Jensen’s never bothered to ask about, a Cupid’s not supposed to pierce a heart from less than two meters away (probably something to do with the danger of being seen before it became moot point during the 20th century) and this Jared guy’s definitely not making his job any easier for him as he proceeds to crowd the space with his pan-sized mitts and everywhere limbs. Jensen sighs and resigns himself to following the giant around until maybe a clear path will open up. He hopes Sandy and her friend outside have a lot to talk about, since this might take awhile.

Jensen gets increasingly impatient as he watches Jared grab a cart and promptly fill half of it with soda, TV dinners, and Jesus, are those _twelve_ packs of gummy bears crammed in the front seat? Jensen’s half-considering throwing a few vegetables in the cart, knowing full well that the mortal would never think twice about it. Then maybe the kid could oh, who knows, live to see past his next birthday?

Just as Jensen’s wandering off towards the produce, his chance reveals himself in the timely clearing of two couples from the frozen aisle, and seeing as how Jen’s one of the country’s top Cupids, it’s easy as pie for him to pull his gun out, aim, and—

Jared suddenly looks straight at Jensen for the second time that day, locks eyes, and then _smiles._ Not even just—there’s _teeth_ , and there’s even a little curled tip of a tongue peeking through, and Jensen’s dumbfounded because _What the fuck, how can he **see** me? _

Jensen’s grip on his gun slackens uncertainly, his mind whirling as the human walks towards him, his mouth opening to form the words as if in slow motion: **_Yes_** —wa—ter—melon—half—off!

Wait, what? Jensen thinks. In the span of half a second he realizes with dismay that no, Jared Tristan Padalecki was most certainly _not_ looking at him, and was instead making eyes at the hefty stack of watermelons behind him. In the latter half of that second Jensen re-aims and pumps a bullet, the twin of Sandra McCoy’s, into the kid’s heart.

Jared just pushes past him and goes to pick out a good watermelon, oohing and aahing to himself over the ripe skins and unbeatable price, and Jensen exhales tightly. _Jesus, what’s wrong with me?_ He’d almost blown that one, and over what? Thinking the human could actually see him?

 _I need this weekend more than I thought_ , he thinks, looking forward to the moment he can cross the last name off the day’s list and go join Chris at their favorite bar. _Sixteen to go,_ he sighs.

Now it’s only a matter of following Jared out the grocery store and making sure he and Sandra make some sort of physical contact before he leaves; that’s all the magic needs to activate. When Jared’s elbow brushes Sandra’s on the way to his truck, their eyes meet and that instant interest, the telltale sign that Jensen’s put away another two successes on his already-impressive record, sparks a weird mixture of relief and disappointment inside of him.

 _Huh,_ he stops to muse, before shrugging his shoulders.

Jensen shakes the mood off like a champ, pulling his trusty list out of his pocket. It doesn’t take long before blinding smiles and feline eyes are all but forgotten—he’s got more important stuff to deal with, like how the hell he’s going to get to the other side of LA for his next target in less than fifteen minutes.

\-----

 

So, there’s this chart. Top 25 Cupids in the United States, and Jensen’s been cruising the number one spot since his third year at the Bureau of Amorous Affairs—a standing that should make him proud (and it does, sure it does) but in reality only means that he’s got high quotas to meet and difficult districts to work.

Districts like Los Angeles, CA, “City of Angels” (which is a ridiculous title because every god and goddess knows that Angels wouldn’t touch LA with a ten-foot pole, the slackers preferring to work their miracles in simpler towns). God knows how many poor Cupids have been tossed to the wolves here, trying to get a bunch of self-absorbed kids to fall in love, or even harder, _stay_ in love. Doesn’t help that Samantha Ferris, the local Venus, expects Jensen to single-handedly clean up the mess there, as if being the leading Cupid in the nation somehow translates into having the ability to incite miracles (again, there _are_ no Angels in LA).

Jensen sighs and tips back his bottled Corona, longing for the early days of Dallas, TX. Every once in awhile the laidback Venus there used to slip Jensen the fun gigs, like shooting a couple of diehard homophobes and watching them go nuts trying to deny it, or getting his targets in the middle of a wedding and observing the mayhem after the bride took off with the busboy.

“What’re you snickering at, Jenny?” Chris asks, squirting his lime into his beer—Corona, like Jensen’s.

“Nothin’ man, just thinking about Texas,” he replies fondly. Yeah, Chris has been his buddy since the early days. The guy’s no slacker himself in the business, so when Jensen had requested (begged) the Bureau to transfer Chris to LA as well, they’d agreed.

Nostalgic smile playing on his lips, Chris knocks the neck of his bottle against Jensen’s with a small _clink_ and they both take long, appreciative swigs, silent toast to the Lone Star State.

Eyes closed, Jensen finishes off the last of his beer and relaxes, trying not to think about work tomorrow. But when he opens his eyes and peers over the glass bottle, he catches a glimpse of something that throws that wishful thinking out the window.

“Holy fu—“ he cries, dropping his bottle down on the table in surprise.

“What, man?”

Jensen blinks and narrows his gaze, searching through the darkness of the bar to locate—yeah, right there. “What the hell are they doing here?”

“Dude, what?” Chris asks, craning his neck to find what Jensen’s goggling at.

There’s a disproportionately tall guy and short girl some distance away and Jensen’s eyes are comically squinty as he studies their backs.

“I think that’s… yeah, I hit those two this morning. Looks like they didn’t waste any time,” Jensen says, re-seating himself and sinking low in the chair as if trying to seem invisible, which is kind of retarded because um, they _are_ invisible.

“The hell’s wrong with you?”

Jensen warily looks at his friend as helps himself to another beer off a waitresses’ tray, then leans in conspiratorially and says, “Okay, so something really weird happened today.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Now… don’t call me crazy or nothin’ but…” Jensen winces. “I think that guy saw me today.”

Chris eyes Jensen skeptically as he digs for peanuts in the small bowl on the table. “Um, Jensen, hate to tell you this but…”

“Don’t be a wiseass, I know they can’t see us. But I’m telling you man, when I bumped into him the guy turned around and _looked_. And when I was aiming at him, he was smiling at me.”

Chris turns around to look at the human again, sizing up his floppy hair and loud laugh that’s reverberating through the bar. “First of all, I’m pretty sure a guy wouldn’t be smiling at somebody pointing a gun at his chest. And second…” he trails off, sensing Jensen’s frustration. “Okay, never mind. Let’s just settle this.”

Chris gets out of his chair as Jensen looks up in panic and hisses, “What are you _doing_ , sit back down!” All he gets is an eye-roll as Chris makes his way over to the couple, casually grabbing a beer from behind the bar before he gets right up to them (Sandra and what was his name again, Jerry? Jared.).

Chris taps Jared on the shoulder and Jensen covers his face with his palms, adamantly not watching the scene they’ll no doubt make when Jared notices there’s an invisible man hounding him. God, Jared’ll look crazy and then the girl might ditch him, and then what? It’ll be up to Jensen to do damage control—and dammit, he’s not even working right now!— ‘cause if they fall out of love it’ll fuck up his January numbers, and everybody knows the Bureau has the memory of a goldfish when it comes to handing out Valentine’s Day bonuses—

“You’re such a loser,” Chris drawls, back already and plunking himself down in the chair across from Jensen who lifts his head from his hands.

“He didn’t notice you?”

“Dude, I stuck my hand under the girl’s shirt and he didn’t bat an eyelash,” Chris laughs, popping few more peanuts in his mouth. “I repeat: Loser.”

\-----

 

The next morning, Jensen wakes up to the infernal ringing of his alarm clock and promptly chucks the thing across the room. Unfortunately, it lands softly and cheerfully as it bounces on the carpet, now shrilly yelling at him from an inaccessible twenty feet away.

Cursing his own stupidity (at not having thrown the thing against the wall instead), Jensen groggily rolls out of bed, crawls to the clock under his desk, then turns it off.

Jesus _Christ_ , his back’s sore. His neck and shoulders too. It hadn’t been a very good night for Jensen, who’d stayed wide awake until the sun just about peeked through his window. He gets insomnia every once in awhile, and he’ll usually make himself some hot chocolate or tea to warm him into sleepiness, but it hadn’t worked last night.

It was those damned cat eyes, Jensen swears. Whether or not Jared had actually seen or noticed him yesterday, it didn’t stop the guy from disrupting Jensen’s usual mental loop of _work, beer, food, friends_ by adding little incessant bleeps of _gummy bears_ and _bright teeth_ in between everything.

Jensen quickly checks the time from the clock still in his hands, then picks himself up off the ground. After a quick shower he puts on a grey suit and a charcoal-colored shirt, foregoing the usual tie in honor of Casual Fridays (a phrase he’d picked up in an office building once, and a tradition he wholeheartedly approves of). A cup of black coffee and a bagel later, he’s out the door.

The first thing Samantha says when she sees him is: “God damn it 97, there is no such thing as ‘Casual Fridays’ here.” Nonetheless, she slides him his list, and then as an afterthought smiles brightly. It kind of looks like a grimace.

Jensen warily looks down and scans—what the fuck, _32 targets?_

“What the fuck Ferris, _32 targets?_ Are you out of your _mind?_ ”

Samantha clearly has a reply prepared as she rattles off, “Now Jensen, you know the Bureau always procrastinates on this stuff and Valentine’s Day is just a few weeks away, so we’ve got to get these kids in love by Monday. Now I purposely picked the ones out that are nearby each other—“

Not in the mood to waste time, Jensen interrupts, “Bonuses, Ferris. I’m thinking a nice big one this year.” He checks his watch, shoots her one last Look, and then hurries out of the room.

During the ride down the building Jensen memorizes his list and mentally maps the best routes to take for the day, while next to him Tom dreamily recounts his first day on the job and how proud he was when he managed to hit one of the targets from across an entire plaza—

Whatever, Jensen’s tuning him out. When they hit the lobby he thumps Tom on the back and then makes a run for the parking lot. It’s going to be a busy a day.

\-----

 

At least one thing can be said for days like this: they pass by really fucking fast. In between obsessively checking his watch, driving like a madman, and riddling unsuspecting mortals with magical bullets, Jensen’s barely got time to breathe, much less complain about how overworked he is. No, the complaints are reserved for _after_ work.

At the local bar in the neighborhood of Silver Lake, LA, six immortals crowd around a sticky wooden table. 

“Honey, I think that’s your hand on my crotch,” Mike says.

“Oh shit, _gross_. I thought that was Kristin’s leg,” Chad says, looking slightly nauseous when Mike leans in suggestively, his grin small and evil. 

Michael Rosenbaum and fucking Chad Michael Murray—the former being Mercury of the BAA (as in, the poor sap who gets stuck counting beans and wringing every last drop from the Bureau’s underfed budget) and the latter being the illustrious Chad, Cupid 73, in charge of the district of Orange County (though he’s kind of ass at his job). Jensen maintains that the stupid goat fuzz on the guy’s face will speak volumes more than he ever could hope to say about Chad. After all, just _look_ at it.

“God, Chad,” Kristin says, wrinkling her little nose. “Why don’t you turn your energies away from trying to grope me and towards doing your job? Everybody’s talking about your sad numbers last month.” She scoots her chair away from him for emphasis, though with the weekend crush packed into every breathable inch of the bar, this just about puts her into Tom Welling’s lap. Tom turns such a deep shade of red that it’s visible even under the dim lighting. Jensen leans back in his chair and lets out a loud belly laugh; the kid’s so fucking _transparent._

“Hey, it’s not my fault!” Chad protests. “It’s all that silicone shit the girls got in their boobs. Fucks with the bullets, I tell ya.”

Jensen leans forward, replying, “Oh c’mon, that’s no excuse. You just gotta angle it up—“ he demonstrates with his hands— “Get them under their ribs, and then you’re home free.”

Mike’s face is plastered with a shit-eating grin as he repeats “boobs,” chuckling to himself. But Chris is there too, smirking right alongside as he drinks his beer. That’s pretty much their whole group; four Cupids, a Mercury, and a couple of Muses—Kristin Bell absent for the night—all of them hailing from the nondescript, 29-story building smack dab in the middle of LA, and united in their distaste for working in government services. Well, other than Tom, who’d been fed the rhetoric of the gods alongside his baby formula (his Dad _is_ Zeus, after all).

Tom’s still flushed when he loudly clears his throat. “Um,” he says, jimmying his leg to shake Kristin off of it. “I don’t mean to—it’s just—“ 

“Oh yeah, sorry,” she slides off embarrassedly, but then yelps when Mike pulls her onto his own lap. 

“Is that better, Tommy?” he asks, winking at Tom who swallows visibly.

“Dude, did you just wink? Who _does_ that?” Jensen hollers, prompting the table to join in as Mike basks in the abuse.

It doesn’t take long for the teasing to stop (it’s useless anyway, Mike’s immune) and the conversation once again breaks down to work-related anecdotes. Chris regales the group about how he’d tried to shoot a police officer wearing a bulletproof vest when the heavy doors of the bar swing open with a loud thud against the wall. Glancing over reveals nothing special, just a couple of guys strolling through, but as Jensen’s turning his attention back to Chris’ story a third member trails in.

“Oh… Jesus. What the _fuck_ , man?” Jensen groans in disbelief.

“What do you mean?” Chris asks, confused. “I had to get the vest off, it was the only way—“

“No, no, I didn’t mean that. Look,” he gestures towards the entrance.

“Hey, isn’t that the guy from yesterday?”

“I thought maybe I was hallucinating or something,” Jensen says, letting his head drop to the wooden table.

“What are you guys talking about?” Kristin asks as everybody (except Jensen, who’s still face-down) collectively turn their heads to look. “Ooh, he’s cute,” she adds.

Jensen just mumbles incoherently into the wood grain so Chris steps in, explaining how Jensen’s convinced that the tallest of the three mortals had actually seen him the other day, and that Jensen’s an idiot.

“Seriously Jen, they can’t _see_ us,” Mike laughs raucously, as Tom nods fervently.

“Yeah, everybody in the Bureau gets cloaked their first day, and there’s never been any incidents since they developed it back in the 40’s.”

“Okay, Encyclopedia Brown, I get it,” Jensen grunts, raising his eyes to glare at Tom. “Still, he freaks me out. Seems like the guy pops up everywhere I go…” Jensen trails off, unsettled by the sudden silence and bewildered expressions on everyone’s faces. “What?” he prompts, turning around in his seat.

He immediately pulls back because otherwise, Jensen’s face would’ve been buried in the crotch of some guy’s dark denims. Roving upwards, his eyes snag on a big Texas belt buckle before crossing a long span of beige cloth…

“Hey,” Jared says, smiling down at him.

Jensen would almost feel smug if he wasn’t so busy losing his shit. He jerks his head back to stare at the rest of the immortals with an incredulous look that says, _Are you getting this? Are you fucking getting this?_

In response, they only back away slowly as if Jensen’s visibility might be catching. “ _Dude_ —“ he starts indignantly, but then a hand lands heavily on his shoulder and Jensen drags his gaze back up (and up, Jesus the guy’s _tall_ ).

Jared bends down and asks, voice just loud enough in Jensen’s ear to be heard over the thumping music, “Are you using these chairs?”

“Uh…” Jensen looks around the table and notices that Tom and Kristin have gotten up anyway, standing as far back as possible as they watch the scene in horror. “Those two chairs are free, I guess,” he says uncertainly.

“Thanks!” Jared maneuvers around the table and grasps the back of Mike’s chair as Mike leans forward in alarm. 

Jensen jumps up. “No! Not uh, not that one,” he protests weakly as Jared gives him a curious look. “The two around it are free. I’m, ah, saving that chair,” he finishes lamely.

“Okay,” Jared says agreeably. “Thanks!” he repeats as he drags off the two empty chairs, his friends helping him as all the immortals stare openly.

Jensen eventually pulls his eyes away from Jared and turns back around, exchanging dumbfounded looks with the other immortals.

“Dude,” Mike says eloquently, “What the fuck was that?”

Jensen shrugs, absently touching the condensation on his pint glass as the other immortals break out into uneasy conversation and debate over whether or not it’s safe to stay there. They keep shooting anxious looks in Jensen’s direction.

Whatever. Jensen could care less if they stay or go; he’s the one who’s been spotted already—is maybe still visible—and he is getting the _fuck_ out of this increasingly claustrophobic bar. He stands up and shrugs his jacket back on, muttering something about how he’ll see everybody on Monday. 

As Jensen’s leaving the bar, people ( _mortals_ ) complain loudly when he jostles them in his haste to get out. By the time he’s standing outside of the bar to catch his breath, he can feel his cheeks burning.

 _It’s… it’s not that big a deal_ , Jensen tries to convince himself. Plenty of gods are visible, mingling and interacting with humans on a day-to-day basis. It’s just… he’s had the luxury of anonymity since his first day at the BAA six years ago so it’s freaking him out a little to lose it now.

Jensen squares his shoulders and strides over to his car, resolving to ask the tech guys about his malfunctioning cloak on Monday. That’s where the problem is, he’s sure of it.

Doesn’t keep him from feeling like Jared’s somehow the culprit, though.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, Jensen’s relieved to find out that his invisibility came back overnight, so he exploits it with a vengeance. Just to make sure that it’s in working order, he shouts obscenities in the middle of Melrose Avenue, grinning stupidly when only the immortal bystanders shoot him dirty looks. Then Jensen double-checks by nudging a toddler with his foot until it falls over, and chuckles in glee when the mother yells to her husband, “I thought you said he learned to walk! You just didn’t want to carry him, I knew it.”

All in all, Jensen’s in a pretty good mood. He convinces himself that that the fiasco at the bar was a one-time thing, so when Jensen comes in to work on Monday, he’s eager to shuck the weekend’s insecurities by kicking ass and taking names.

“Morning, Venus. Whatcha got for me today?” he says, stepping right up to her desk to get the day’s assignment. “Twenty, thirty guys? I nailed it on Friday, you gotta give me that.”

Samantha laces her fingers together on her desk. “Friday was good,” she agrees as Jensen waits for the catch that’s so evident in her lingering voice, and she doesn’t disappoint. “But we have a bit of a problem with your Thursday targets. It seems a…” she pauses, opening a file to scan, “…Sandra McCoy and Jared Padalecki aren’t in love anymore.”

Jensen blinks at her, letting the information sink in before growling under his breath. It just _figures_ that the stupid giant would come back to haunt him today, as if the last four days of panic and worry about his invisibility (his _manhood,_ dammit) weren’t enough. Samantha continues, “Now I know you don’t normally make rookie mistakes like this, so I’m cutting you some slack. I won’t call in the Charities so long as you get this fixed. Today.”

Jensen nods tersely. The Charities are a freelance professional clean-up crew consisting of three goddesses who get called in to patch up minor mistakes for the Bureau, but they’re expensive as hell and it looks bad on a record so Jensen’s thankful for the small favor. “You got any intelligence for me?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she replies, pulling out a pen to scribble in her yellow notepad. “We know where they’ll be at 10:00 AM and at 6:30 PM, but that’s all we’ve got. Don’t miss them again.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll fix this,” Jensen promises as he takes the sheet and leaves the room.

Only when he’s alone in the elevator does he allow himself to wonder what the hell went wrong. He throws his memory back to last Thursday to scour for any mistakes he might’ve made, but nothing out of the ordinary comes up. Both shots had been clean, straight through the heart. Furthermore, the couple had definitely been in love for at least a little awhile—they hadn’t red-flagged the system until after the weekend had passed.

The elevator hits ground level and Jensen steps off, still deep in thought. It could’ve been unfamiliarity with the new gun, he supposes; there’s a small chance he might’ve clipped Sandy’s heart instead of piercing it. Or hey, there’s the possibility that Jared’s part-immortal, which would also explain his freaky ability to see and notice Jensen. It’s kind of a stretch though, and by the time Jensen’s reached the parking lot, he’s already talked himself out of that theory.

Oh well, life’s full of mysteries and it isn’t Jensen’s job to solve them. What _is_ his job is making humans fall in love, so he shakes all speculation from his mind and focuses on the task at hand. At 10:00 AM, Sandy’s going to be at Leimert Park, Jared just a couple blocks over, so it’s up to Jensen to re-plant the magical bullets and get them close enough to touch.

Should’ve been easy enough to finish the job at their ten o’clock locations, but unfortunately Jensen hadn’t taken into account Sandy’s busy schedule. After he plants the first bullet (taking care to get the shot perfect) he’s dismayed to find that she won’t come easily when Jensen tries to pull her down the block to where Jared is. She weasels out of his grasp every few minutes to rush towards her Jeep, so eventually he gives up and lets her go. There’s always later that evening, when they’ll both be in West Hollywood.

Unfortunately, this means that Jensen’s got half a day to kill now. Great. 

After ten (agonizingly boring) minutes of watching dogs yank their owners around in the dog park, Jensen grabs his phone from his pocket and calls up Chris.

“Dude, don’t bug me right now. I’m looking for a target, some guy named Jack Brody...” Chris says, sounding preoccupied.

“C’mon, let me tag along. I’m bored outta my skull, man,” Jensen wheedles in what he hopes is a convincing manner.

“Fine, fine,” Chris gripes, quickly rattling off his location before snapping the line closed.

 _Yes_ , Jensen cheers. His buddy’s on La Brea, so Jensen can get some shopping done while he’s waiting for 6:30 to roll around.

\-----

 

Jared scratches his chin. It’s getting itchy. It’s been a couple days so his beard’s growing out, but when shaves too often his skin gets all irritated and red. He’ll shave later. This sucks.

“This sucks,” he grumbles out loud, running a hand over his face. It’s so stubbly and _annoying._

“Have a nice day,” he hears as he pushes through the boutique door, the warm air greeting Jared like a butterfly kiss. When he’s outside he looks up and down the street, trying to decide where to go next.

Jared’s looking for something to give to Sandy for Valentine’s Day which is only a couple weeks away. Even though they just started to hang out again after being strictly friends on the set of _Cry Wolf_ , it feels different this time around, like the air between them is charged with electricity. And if the shameless flirtation they shared at Great Lakes last week was any indication, the outlook is pretty promising—promising enough to warrant an early start on a good gift. ‘Sides, their dinner date isn’t until 6:00 PM so he’s whiling the time away by window-shopping.

Jared pulls his sunglasses on and trundles towards Starbucks, hankering for a caramel frappuccino. It’s really starting to get warm out and he’s regretting wearing long sleeves today; of course, he’s probably not as hot as that sucker sitting on the bench, decked out in a full suit and tie. Jared walks by, glancing at him skeptically—

Hey, wait. Wait a second. “Don’t I know you?” he blurts, stopping in front of the seated man who ignores him. It takes the guy awhile to notice that he’s sitting in Jared’s shadow and then he looks around bewilderedly, as if Jared wasn’t standing right there.

Oh yeah, Jared remembers this guy. “Weren’t you at Great Lakes on Saturday?” he asks, smiling broadly. The guy had been kind of weird like, sitting by himself at this huge table and acting all jittery when Jared asked to borrow a couple chairs. He was funny. Jared likes funny people. He examines him a little closer, opening his mouth to ask, “Why are you dressed like that? It’s like, 90 degrees out.”

The guy finally picks his head up, though his lashes are so long and dark that Jared can hardly see his eyes until he’s looking straight at him. Whoa, the guy’s got really bright eyes. Especially with the sun shining into them, they’re like green and hazel-ish. Cool. “Are you a bodyguard or something?” he asks, trying to break the awkward silence thing that’s going on, because stuff like that sucks.

“Um,” the guy finally manages. “You can… are you talking to me?” Then he looks off to the side, eyes convulsively traveling between Jared’s face and some airborne spot above the bench.

Jared’s smile dims a little. He likes funny guys, but he’s not so sure about possibly-crazy guys who’re also possibly on drugs.

Still, this one’s kind of interesting, and Jared’s sick of shopping anyway so he plops down on the bench next to Mr. Schizo. “Hope you don’t mind,” he says, frowning in confusion as the guy keeps his eyes trained on some invisible spot and he’s mouthing something with twitchy jerks of his hands. Jared doesn’t know whether to laugh or back away slowly. He settles for asking, “You okay there? I can leave, you know.”

Finally, the guy freezes, his eyes snapping on to Jared’s face. “Um, you caught me at a bad time. Sorry,” he says, getting up off the bench and walking backwards with his eyes trained on Jared like he thinks Jared’s a psychopath who’s going to lunge for his throat with his bare teeth any moment now.

Jared stands up as well, intrigued by the flux of expressions crossing the man’s face. “No worries, I’ll walk you to wherever you’re going. I did see you the other night though, right?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess,” the guy replies, veering towards the sidewalk as he avoids eye contact and picks up his pace like he’s trying to shake a persistent puppy. “Look, I have to—“

“So, what do you do?” Jared interrupts. What? He’s bored. “The whole suit and tie thing kinda stands out, you know.”

The guy looks like he might humor Jared for a minute, but then he suddenly stops in his tracks and turns to face him. “Seriously, I have stuff to do. Can’t you just…” He makes a wiggly motion with hand that clearly reads _Disappear._

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to bug you or nothin’,” Jared replies tersely. He watches the guy wander into the crowd but before he can stop himself, Jared suddenly yells, “Hey, what’s your name?”

He doesn’t think he’ll really get an answer, but the guy pauses, deliberates for a bit, and then squarely meets Jared’s gaze. “It’s Jensen,” he says finally, something that’s not quite a smile playing on his lips.

Jared breaks out into a big grin, feeling inexplicably triumphant. He moves forward to introduce himself (he’s got manners, after all), glancing down for just a moment to maneuver around a woman with her baby stroller, but when he looks up again Jensen’s gone.

Jared searches for a bit, even peeking into the nearby store to see if Jensen ducked in, but the guy’s nowhere to be seen. He frowns, shoves his hands into his pockets and makes his way back towards Starbucks. Despite being incredibly strange at times, Jensen was interesting. Jared wanted to find out more.

 _Oh well_ , he eventually sighs as he enters the cool, air-conditioned coffee shop and orders himself a caramel frappuccino. Once he’s fetched it from the take-out counter he heads back out to enjoy his drink on the bench. 

As he’s stirring the whipped cream into slush, Jared realizes that he never did find out why Jensen was all dressed up. It’d been a pretty wicked suit, though.

\-----

 

“Jared?” Jensen asks, cocking his head at the kid’s obvious confusion. He’d just given his name and Jared had definitely heard him, if that enormous toothy smile was anything to go by, but now he’s acting like Jensen’s vanished into thin air.

 _Ah,_ he thinks, aware that he’d just answered his own question. To Jared, he probably _had_ vanished.

“What, so he can’t see you now?” Chris grumbles. After nearly being sat on by the mortal on the bench, he’d followed Jensen around during the entire incident.

“I guess not,” Jensen replies, stepping forward and waving his hand in front of Jared’s forlorn face. Nope, not even a blink.

“What the fuck, man? This is some wacky shit going on,” Chris says, watching Jared open a boutique door to peek in, only to step back out again. “You oughta tell the Bureau about this. You can’t work if your visibility’s on and off.”

“Yeah, seriously,” Jensen replies, imagining the crazy amount of shit he’d be in if a human reported being tracked by a fully armed Cupid who was flickering in and out of view. Yeah, that’d be _bad._

He watches as Jared eventually stops looking for him and slumps away, hands deep in his pockets. Jensen kind of wishes the kid would smile instead; he wants to see that smile again… for Sandy, that is. Because when Sandy sees it, all bright and toothy and beaming down on her, she’ll fall in love properly and then Jensen can finally move on with his job.

“Oh shit,” Jensen starts, suddenly remembering what his one assignment is for the day. He reaches for his gun as he takes off in Jared’s direction, calling to his friend, “Hold on, I should shoot this guy while he’s here.”

Jensen winds up at the bench again, scanning the crowd and thankful that Jared’s so friggin’ tall—it should be a piece of cake to find the guy. Turns out he’s right behind Jensen, having just left Starbucks with a drink in hand that’s giant enough to be proportional to Jared’s ridiculous size. The kid goes on to sit on the bench, happily sucking away at the straw as Jensen backs up to find a good angle. 

He raises his gun just as Jared pulls his mouth away from the straw, wet shine on translucent green plastic, and sprawls out on the bench with arms and legs languidly spread like he’s melted onto the metal bench. It presents Jensen with the perfect shot and so he lifts the gun, takes his time to aim directly at Jared’s heart, and then buries the bullet into his chest with a deafening bang.

Jared doesn’t notice anything, thank God. He only turns his head to look back at where Jensen had vanished earlier, then faces front again and drinks from his frappuccino.

Chris jogs up next to Jensen, asking, “You got him this time?”

“I think so,” he replies, lowering his firearm. “Now I just gotta wait until he meets up with the girl.” 

Jensen checks his watch as he tucks his gun back into its holster. It’s only an hour or so before Jared and Sandy will meet, touch, and fall in love again. He’s made no mistakes this time, Jensen’s _sure_ of it.

Chris shoots him a worried look. “Hey, don’t worry about your invisibility problem,” he says, misunderstanding Jensen’s deep frown. “We’ll get you checked out with the tech guys at the Bureau.”

“Yeah,” Jensen replies, thankful for Chris’ concern, misplaced as it is—what Jensen actually wants is for this colossal fuck-up to be fixed and done with. Though if he’s willing to be truthful to himself, the idea of Jared and Sandy falling in love and getting their Happily Ever After doesn’t really sit right with him either. 

Nevertheless, Jensen’s too tired to psychoanalyze anything right now, much less his own jumbled thoughts, so he just claps Chris on the shoulder and steers his friend into one of the clothing shops lining the street. 

“C’mon man,” Jensen says. “The award ceremony’s up in a few weeks. Help me pick out an outfit for when I’m on stage again.”

“You’re an arrogant sonuvabitch, you know that?” Chris replies as he lets himself be dragged into one of the nicest boutiques on the strip. Jensen just beams back, shoving the day’s worries behind a cocky grin, determined not to get bogged down by the strange discontent that’s been climbing into him ever since he crashed into Jared Tristan Padalecki just last Thursday.

Jared Padalecki, and those twinkling eyes and huge hands that look like they could cradle Jensen’s head in one palm; Jared who smiles like a child and smells like earth and spice, and now Jensen’s wondering, how does he even know what Jared smells like? 

A job’s a job and everybody always says, “don’t get too close.” Jensen wonders if he’s getting too close. Decides that he’s _not_ , that “tangled” would be a better word for this situation, and that it’ll all be moot anyway since Jensen’s a professional and after 6:30 sharp, a touch and some magic, he won’t ever see Jared again anyway.

 _You’re a Cupid. Act like one,_ he tells himself.

\-----

 

The next morning—

“They’re still not in love, C-97.”

“Mother _fucker_ —“

“Hey, watch your mouth in here.”

“I did everything right, you _know_ me, Ferris.”

A pause. “I do know you, Jensen. Now, I’m willing to give you the week to patch this up the old-fashioned way, but you’re not getting any more days off, either.”

“Sounds fair to me.”

“Alright, then. Your assignments for the day,” Samantha says, sliding a list of names across the wooden table. “Good luck, Cupid.”

\-----

 

Jared pulls down the brim of his baseball cap, low over his eyes, and nurses his pint as he checks his watch again for the fortieth time, steadfastly reminding himself that he’s waiting for _Sandy,_ he’s staring at the front door for _Sandy. Sandy, Sandy, Sandy,_ he repeats in his head.

It isn’t like Jared’s staking out Great Lakes on the off-chance that Jensen might show up here again, because that’d be creepy. And Jared’s not creepy. Just… a little maybeintrigued, but what of it? Who wouldn’t be interested by a possible schizophrenic who wears really expensive suits to outdoor strip malls? Besides, Jared’s always been drawn to fix-it cases, like his adopted pets Sadie and Harley. That worked out awesome, so who knows, maybe Jensen’s his next adopted puppy. Only this one’s got big, sparkling green eyes instead of the droopy brown ones he’s used to, and Jensen probably won’t whine for extra doggie biscuits (not that that’s entirely out the question; Jared’s tried the things, and they’re not all that awful, honestly).

Anyway, there’s no need to follow that train of thought because really, Jared’s just here to meet Sandy for a drink and if he’s chosen to come to this bar for any particular reason, it’s just ‘cause he likes it here. They’ve got New Castle on tap, and that’s a good enough reason alone.

“Hey, you,” Sandy’s voice floats in and Jared looks up to face dark brown eyes and a bright, lipstick-red smile. “You been waiting long?” she asks, gesturing at his nearly empty pint as she sets down her purse and takes a seat.

“Nah, not that long,” Jared replies. He leans in to greet her with a hug and a peck on the cheek, then pulls back and overtly sweeps his gaze up and down her body, grinning lewdly as she giggles and pushes at Jared’s shoulder. It’s no farce though; Sandy looks adorable with her long dark hair swept up in a casual ponytail and her outfit just low-cut and clingy enough to be sexy, but respectable. She quickly flags down a waitress and orders a Guinness for herself—“And get the foam right!” she calls—as Jared swells with pride.

See? Jared’s crazy about her. Not crazy like muttering to himself and looking at invisible things Crazy, or even wearing a dark jacket and tie out in the hot sun in the middle of a work day Crazy, just… yeah. 

_Sandy,_ he reminds himself.

Her Guinness arrives and the two of them quickly fall into easy, enjoyable conversation. Nonetheless, engaging as her company is, Jared just can’t seem to keep his eyes from wandering. Throughout the night he constantly catches himself searching the crowd or watching the front door even as he’s fully listening to her; has to check himself when he’s staring elsewhere for too long because seriously, what the hell? Sandy’s here, she’s funny and smart and a fucking hottie and there’s absolutely no reason for Jared to be watching the door. _Get a grip,_ he tells himself, refocusing for the umpteenth time to give Sandy his undivided attention.

“—and so I’ve forwarded my demo reel, but I’m kind of iffy about the director anyway and…Jared?” Sandy bites her lip, turning around to see what it is that her date’s been looking at all night long.

“Sorry, go on,” he encourages, eyes snapping down to meet hers but c’mon, she isn’t stupid.

“Look, you’ve been distracted all evening—“ she shakes her head when Jared opens his mouth— “Don’t worry about it. We’ll just make it an early night.”

Feeling distinctly like a horrible, horrible person, Jared sits back in his chair, defeated. “I’m really sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight. I’m just…”

“No worries,” Sandy reassures. She leans forward conspiratorially and says, “Just know that I’ll be expecting flowers and chocolates from you next time, Mister.”

God, she’s so freakishly adorable, and Jared tells her so and presses a loud kiss on her forehead. He tosses some cash onto the table for the drinks, then grabs her hand and leads her out of the bar.

Outside, the air’s still warm. It never gets too cold in Southern California, even during the winter. Jared walks Sandy to her car, opens the door for her and waits patiently as she throws her jacket in the backseat. She’s arranging her skirt, glancing up at Jared with huge, hopeful eyes so he leans down, one hand on the car door and the other reaching up to cup her face. Her eyes flutter down, Jared leans in—

In the corner of his eye, he sees some movement in the side mirror of the car. He can’t help but flicker his gaze to it, even though he’s so close to Sandy that he can feel her warm breath over his lips.

He wants to look. It’s just human nature, right? He wants to turn around and see who’s behind them. Maybe he doesn’t feel comfortable kissing around others, maybe he doesn’t want any trouble from some drunkard stumbling out of the bar. Maybe it has nothing to do with the one thing that’s been dominating his mind all night (all day, all week)…no. No, it _doesn’t_ have anything to do with that, with _him_ , so Jared ducks down and presses his mouth against Sandy’s.

Her lips are sticky with gloss. She tastes like peaches. It’s good, it’s real good, but for some inexplicable reason he’d expected them fuller, to have more give; expected her lips to be soft and smooth but dry, and firm.

\-----

 

“So do you want to fuck her or not?”

“Oh my God, what _gives?_ ” Tom covers his face with his hands, as if that’ll keep Jensen and his lack of propriety at bay. Ha ha, nice try, kiddo.

“I’m serious here! She’s hot and single. You’re hot and single,” Jensen reasons. It makes perfect sense.

“Hey you hear that?” Mike shoulders his way between the two of them. “Jenny thinks you’re hot. Maybe he’s trying to tell you something,” he snickers, slinging his arms around them as Tom blushes a deep shade of what the other immortals have affectionately dubbed the “Tommy Glow”.

It’s nighttime in downtown LA and the three immortals are sitting at their favorite bar, sharing a quick evening drink. Jensen’s feeling good and loose, encouraging the alcohol to flow through his system and work out the tension that’s crept up over the past week or so. So okay, it’s possible he may’ve overdone it a tiny bit for a weekday but hey, it’s been stressful lately. Really, incredibly stressful, no thanks to that lumbering oaf of a mortal who’d somehow managed to slip through the system over and over again. Jared is single-handedly destroying Jensen’s career, with the added bonus of doing it right before the V-Day reviews.

 _Yeah, let’s not think about that_ , Jensen thinks. He shrugs out from underneath Rosenbaum’s arm and swivels around on the bar stool, nearly slipping off before scootching back, then fixes Tom with a pointed look. “I’m completely serious Tom,” he says, as the other two exchange amused looks. Hey, hey, he’s not _that_ drunk. Ignoring their deprecating smiles, Jensen continues, “You like her, don’t you? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure Kristin likes _you._ ” 

“It… it’s not like that,” Tom says, clearly unhappy as he looks over to Mike for help, but he’s tuned them out in favor of idly watching the TV mounted in the corner. So Tom takes matters into his own hands, coughing loudly and saying, “So, uh, you ever get your invisibility checked out?”

Oh, Jensen wants to steamroll over that sad attempt at changing the subject. He really does, but one look at Tom’s pleading blue eyes and it’s enough to send a little guilt over in Jensen’s direction. He sighs and casts Tom a pitying look. “Yeah, I had the guys over in IT look it over but they said there’s nothing wrong with it. Hey,” Jensen snaps his fingers, remembering. “Maybe you’ll know the answer to this. Is there any chance the guy who keeps seeing me could be part-immortal? Because it’s always the same guy wrecking my cloak, so I thought maybe it’s just him.”

Tom mulls this over for a bit but Mike’s the one to answer, “Nah, that’s not it. If somebody’s got even a drop of immortal blood, he should be able to see you just fine without messing with your cloak. Has to do with the ions in our blood and how they interact with the electromagnetic field around the cloak.” Making sure that Jensen and Tom look duly impressed, Mike buffs his nails on his shirt. “Fucked a girl in IT, once.”

“Ah,” they reply.

“Damn it though, puts me back to square one,” Jensen sighs.

“Better figure it out soon, though Jenny,” Mike says, leaning in. “Now you didn’t hear it from me, but grapevine among the higher execs says you’ve got some competition for top Cupid this year.”

“What?” Oh, hell no. That award’s been his for the last three years and Jensen is not about to give up special treatment (his _Casual Fridays_!) and a hefty bonus just because one overgrown kid couldn’t be bothered to fall in love like a normal human being.

“Really? Jensen’s got competition?” Tom asks incredulously. No way. Tom had secretly hero-worshiped the Bureau’s most (in)famous Cupid since the early days; he’d gone through college on a diet of near legends like how Jensen had shot thirty couples in the span of one football game, or how he’d paired up an entire sorority house, much to the delight of every male Cupid who’d dropped by to witness the aftermath. No freaking way could somebody outdo _Cupid 97._

“Who is it?” Jensen demands.

“I can’t say who,” Mike says, but then shrugs immediately after. “Some sleeper hit from New York. Cupid 23.”

“23…” Jensen’s eyes widen. “Hey, you talking about Jeff Morgan?”

“Yeah, that’s his name,” Mike replies. “Why, you know the guy?”

Does he _know_ the guy? Christ, Jeff’s the one who’d recruited him six years ago, when Jensen had just graduated college without a clue as to what he should do with the rest of his life. And after that… he’d _known_ Jeff a couple years more, under his mentorship in the training program. Known the solid weight of muscle against his own, the sexy scrape of stubble across his face. The feel of Jeff’s smile blanketing him, slow, _God,_ like the Texas sun. Known all these things and more.

When he notices his friends staring at him, Jensen clears his throat and says, “Yeah. I worked with him back in Dallas for awhile.”

Nodding, Tom says, “I’ve heard of him. He was supposed to be really good, but then he quit the Bureau out of the blue a few years ago. I wonder why he came back?”

“Well, either way, he’s climbing the ranks like crazy so you better be in top form,” Mike says, nudging Jensen with his shoulder. Jensen just grips his pint with both hands, staring down the dark liquid like it’ll speak to him if he waits long enough. Damn it, maybe this wasn’t the night for drinking—old, familiar anger and insecurity rises up in him and Jensen doesn’t even have his sobriety to stamp the feelings down with.

He decisively picks up his beer, downs the last half of it, then wipes the foam off his mouth as he slides off the stool. “Well, guys,” he says. “It’s a work day tomorrow. I’m going home.”

Mike’s back to watching the game on TV, so he waves Jensen off with one hand. “You go ahead, I’m just gonna finish this up.”

Tom glances back and forth between the two of them, then says, “I’m gonna stick around too. See you tomorrow, Jensen.”

“Later,” he says, clapping them on the backs before making his way out of the bar.

Once he’s pushed through into the warm night air, Jensen walks towards his car with the full intention of driving straight home, but when he trips over the curb he realizes he should probably sober up a bit before hitting the streets. In the glove compartment of his car is a pack of smokes so he reaches in, finagles out a cigarette, then lights it with the car’s push-in lighter.

The first deep inhale hits him low and easy. Jensen slams the door shut, turns around and leans against his car as he observes the half-empty parking lot, his gaze lidded and sleepy, filtering in the wan pools of light that glow from tall fluorescent lamps.

So, Jeff’s up for the number one spot, huh? Not that he’s surprised by it. No, Jensen knows that his former teacher deserves that recognition more than anyone. It’s past due, in fact. Still doesn’t stop Jensen from wanting to come out on top though, wanting to steal the award out from under Jeff’s nose so he realizes that hey, maybe he’d made a mistake all those years ago. Maybe he shouldn’t have dumped Jensen’s ass in Texas, only to disappear off the radar for the next three years. Not a word, damn it; he hadn’t even said a _word_ to Jensen.

Shit, the drinking was definitely a bad idea tonight. Can’t get away from his own moods when he’s like this.

Jensen takes another slow drag off his cigarette, listening to the sizzle of tobacco and oxygen before he exhales and watches the smoke dissipate in front of him. Beyond the haze, a couple rows over, there’s a Jeep with two bodies on the other side. He can’t make out the color of the car—in this lighting, everything’s washed in murky oranges—but the car looks familiar. Curious, Jensen pads over with a vague sense of foreboding at the pit of his stomach. When he stops before the two mortals, he shouldn’t be surprised.

He shouldn’t be, and he isn’t. Somehow he’d just _known_ he would run into him again.

It’s Jared. And Sandy, too; only the two most troublesome targets Jensen’s ever had the displeasure of being assigned to during his entire career as Cupid. They’re standing there, Jared crowding the girl against the open door of her car and bending down to kiss her, her feet on tiptoe to reach him.

He’s _kissing_ her, and Jensen’s suddenly pissed because what the fuck, what is the problem? If these two kids aren’t in love—Jared’s hand dwarfs her face, his thumb rubbing the apple of her cheek—if this isn’t two mortals living out their god-ordained _love_ , then Jensen’s a soft cuddly kitty. Or a cat with claws and pissed, more like, because he’s about to be pushed to second place in the rankings, pushed beneath Jeff and thus confirming the fact that Jensen wasn’t good enough, wasn’t ever good enough to be on top of Jeff, _on top_ of him hard, aching, _wanting._

“Shit,” he curses, grimacing at the realization that he’s circled back to fucking _Jeffrey Dean Morgan._

Jensen pinches the cigarette between his finger and thumb, pulling it to his lips for one last drag when in front of him, Jared turns around and inhales sharply, loud enough for them all to hear.

Ah, fuck. Not again.

“Jensen,” Jared breathes, disbelief coloring his words. “I didn’t—what are you doing here?” Behind Jared’s huge frame, Sandy peeks out, watching Jensen with interest.

“Was here for a few drinks. Heading home now, though,” he says, sucking hard at the butt of his cigarette as if that last bit of nicotine will get him out of this one. Jared watches him unblinkingly, his eyes tracing the hollow of Jensen’s cheeks, the shape of Jensen’s lips around the filter.

“Sorry,” Jared says, shaking his head a little bit. “This is my friend Sandy. Sandy, Jensen.”

She winds around Jared’s body and steps forward, shaking Jensen’s proffered hand as he flicks the used butt away. “Nice to meet you,” she smiles, her teeth white and straight against red, red lips.

Now, Jensen thinks to himself as he grips her small hand in his own, he has two choices. He can either get the fuck out of there, pretend like his invisibility doesn’t get flattened by Jared’s presence alone…or, he could play along. Accept the fact that there’s something off about this whole job, but that he needs to get it done nonetheless. Even if it means doing it (ugh) the old-fashioned way.

Jeff’s face briefly flickers through his mind and Jensen finds that there are no options here, not really. He isn’t, he _won’t_ give up so easily. 

Jensen leans in, pulling on their joined hands so that Sandy stutters in closer. If he’s going to have to do this the hard way, it means he’s got to get creative. He’s got to get Jared and Sandy to fall in love _without_ magic.

“Nice to meet you too,” he says, pitching his voice low. He licks his bottom lip, letting his tongue linger there because he remembers it used to drive Jeff crazy and he’s thinking it just might work on the pretty lady too. Sandy’s eyes flick down to his mouth and Jensen thinks, _Still got it._

Good. If Jensen’s going to do this, actually throw himself into playing matchmaker between Jared and Sandy, he’s going to have to dust off all his old tricks because he’s formulating a plan. In the time between his last puff and the meeting of Sandy’s palm against his, Jensen’s figured out how this is going to work.

It’s basic, really. Any Cupid worth his salt knows a few back-up procedures to follow when the arms and arsenal fall through. And this plan’s the simplest of the bunch: play the girl, get some jealousy flowing, and pray the ensuing attraction between the couple grows into love. And while the cons aren’t great, since the targets will often fall out of love soon after, it doesn’t really matter in this case because Valentine’s Day is right around the corner and along with it, the Bureau’s annual award ceremony. Right around the corner so Jensen can sweep this nightmare of a job under the rug just long enough to get up on stage and dazzle the crowd (which will include a regretful, pining Jeff, of course) with his fourth consecutive year as top Cupid. Yup, sounds like a plan.

“So,” Jensen says, still clasping Sandy’s hand. “Whatcha kids up to for the night?”

Sandy self-consciously reclaims her hand and tucks her hair behind an ear. “Well, it’s a weeknight—“

“We were, uh…” Jared cuts in, eyes darting over to Sandy. “We were just heading over to Toi for some grub.” He sends her a pleading look whose meaning is way beyond Jensen, but she catches on quickly and follows up with a murmur of agreement. “I’m freakin’ starving. You too, right?” Jared asks Sandy, his words sounding like an _Is this okay?_ Jensen flits his gaze between the two, trying to work out their mental conversation but before he can tap into it, the awkwardness breaks.

Sandy rolls her eyes a little and nudges Jared as she confirms, “Yeah. _Starving._ ”

“Mm, sounds goods,” Jensen agrees casually.

“So what’re you up to?” Jared asks a little too quickly. Noticing Jensen’s assessing gaze, he follows it up with a lame cough.

Jensen’s a merciful man, however. “Just dicking around until I’m sober enough to drive,” he answers with the jerk of a thumb towards his car.

“Oh yeah? Well there’s room in my car, you wanna come with?” Jared glances at Sandy again, praying that he’s not pushing his luck.

He needn’t have worried; Sandy’s eyes light up and she nods encouragingly. “Yeah, come with us. It’ll be fun.”

 _In the bag,_ Jensen smirks inwardly, even as he puts on airs, hemming and hawing just for show; does it just to make her want it that much more, hoping her enthusiasm will point Jared down the path to some good old-fashioned _jealousy._

“You know you want some pad thai,” Sandy wheedles, rocking forward and butting against Jensen with her shoulder. Her eyes look impossibly large as they blink up at him. 

Jared frowns.

Jensen smiles. “Alright,” he says eventually.

Oh, this is going to be easy.


	3. Chapter 3

Sandy’s got curry on the side of her mouth, a little blot of red sauce that she unsuccessfully tries to wipe off with the back of her hand. Jared reaches forward with his napkin but before his arm’s halfway across the table—

“Aw, you dork,” Jensen smiles as he thumbs the curry off, then sticks his finger into his mouth to lick it clean. Sandy laughs, embarrassed, and ducks her eyes.

What the—? This is so not on.

“So, you said you work in the government?” Jared pouts, spearing green and red bell peppers onto his fork before looking up to catch Jensen as he licks a stripe up the pad of his thumb. Jesus, how long does it takes to clean off a stupid blob of curry?

“Mmm…” Jensen hums around his thumb before popping it out, shiny wet. “Something like that. Top secret stuff, you shouldn’t even be asking.”

“Ooh, that’s so cool,” Sandy replies, eyes glittering. “Like, FBI or something?”

Jensen lists to the side, bumping her petite shoulder with his own. “Even _more_ classified than that,” he purrs, sending her a hungry look that’s—okay, what the fuck, man? Jared kicks his foot out under the table feels it connect. Jensen’s grin falters a little and then he shoots Jared a dirty look.

Good, he deserved that. After all, what the hell? Jensen’s been hitting on Sandy like it’s going out of style from the moment they got to the restaurant. Seriously, the guy’s pulled out all the stops—isn’t even _attempting_ to hide the fact that he’s trying to charm his way into Sandy’s pants—and while this kind of behavior would normally annoy her to no end, she seems to like it just fine when it’s coming from Jensen, Mr. Schizo-cum-Playboy Extraordinaire. 

And what’s Sandy playing at anyway? She’s supposed to be cooler than this—levelheaded, unaffected, and wholly devoted to Jared. She isn’t supposed to be making eyes at Jensen and encouraging him like that. Maybe it was Jared’s distractedness at the bar earlier, or maybe it’s just _Jensen_ , but she’s turned into a quibbling mess of hair-twirling and giggles, and Jensen’s lapping it up and, yeah. Asking him to come out had seemed like a good idea at the time, but watching Sandy (his supposed girlfriend) get wooed by some stranger is not Jared’s idea of a good time.

He shovels a huge forkful of pad thai noodles into his mouth, trying to get this meal over with as quickly as possible, when Jensen leans to the side and whispers something in Sandy’s ear, causing her to burst out laughing. Okay, that’s _it._

Jared swallows the half-chewed noodles down his throat, then stands up and edges out of the booth, ignoring Sandy’s look of bewilderment as he grabs Jensen and stalks his way towards the men’s restroom with him in tow.

Jared forcibly throws Jensen into the single room, follows him in and locks the door behind them.

“What the fuck, dude?” Jensen asks, his eyes wide and confused as he straightens his shirt where Jared wrinkled it. “What’s going on?”

What’s going on? Jesus, as if it weren’t completely _obvious_. Jensen’s been flirting with Sandy _right in front of him_ , all touchy-feely with obscene innuendo punctuating his every sentence, and he has the audacity to ask what’s wrong? He wants to yell at Jensen, wants to maybe punch him in the mouth. He snatches up fistfuls of Jensen’s fancy shirtfront and runs him backwards, taking satisfaction in Jensen’s surprised gasp when his back slams against the tiled wall.

“Jared,” he manages, even though Jared’s fists and knuckles are crowded up against the base of his throat, making him choke a little. Jared’s eyes flick down…landing on Jensen’s eyes, bright and earnest. Jensen turns abashed under the scrutiny and he hesitantly touches his hands to Jared’s elbows, saying “Look, I’m—“

And that look of contrition, of being sorry because he’s been trying woo _Sandy_ all night—Jesus, Jared really doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to hear any explanation that could possibly come out of Jensen’s mouth, so he ducks his head down and cuts him off with an angry kiss.

\-----

 

Jared tangles his hands in Jensen’s shirt and shoves him backwards, the top buttonholes popping open from the force. When his back meets the cold shock of tile Jensen hisses and arches up, trying to get away from it but Jared crowds in and presses him down. Unless Jensen wants to be plastered against Jared like a second skin (and he doesn’t. Really.), he’s forced to suck it up and touch the wall, ignoring the instant heat loss from his entire back. 

Jesus, Jensen was just trying to do Jared a favor, but somehow he’s pissed him off so bad that it’s come to this; at Jared’s sudden movement, Jensen braces himself—

Jared’s lips are tight against his, frozen as if he was expecting Sandy but got a mouthful of Jensen instead. _Great_ , Jensen thinks, unhappy enough already _without_ having to deal with Jared’s hallucinations. He makes for throwing him off when suddenly, Jared’s mouth warms up—turns encouraging as he moves in closer, hands loosening from Jensen’s shirt to smooth out over his shoulders and onto the cool tile behind him. He leans his weight into his palms, flat against the wall, and backs up to take a breath before dipping low to recapture Jensen’s lips.

Jensen tries to say something, though he doesn’t even know what; maybe Jared’s name, or a protest, or something else entirely. But the word gets trapped and lost between their mouths, swept aside by Jared’s teasing tongue. A little groan embarrassingly escapes from Jensen’s throat and he feels Jared smile against him, feels him push his tongue in deeper, sliding against Jensen’s own and drawing him out.

Somewhere between jumbled thoughts of _Uhh… this wasn’t how it was supposed to go,_ Jensen eventually gives up and gives in. He takes a deep breath through his nose and tentatively pushes back with his mouth, hands automatically reaching up to rest against Jared’s solid chest (because he isn’t going to wrap his arms around Jared’s neck, he won’t let himself—Jensen isn’t a fucking _girl_ for chrissakes). But with that slight pressure, with Jensen inching up off the wall and into Jared’s body, Jared lunges back as if he’d been shoved off.

Jared stands there gaping for a moment, looking shocked like Jensen was the one who’d trapped and jumped him in a men’s restroom—he turns around, scrabbles at the finicky lock, and hurriedly leaves the room.

“Jared,” he calls belatedly, following after because for one thing, that’s his _ride_ who’s desperately trying to escape, and for another...well, yeah. Jensen’s not in the right frame of mind to examine his feelings right now.

He doggedly follows Jared back to their booth. When Sandy catches the frazzled sight of them her, eyes widen and she asks, “What’s going on, guys?“ She looks past Jared’s traumatized expression and immediately locks onto Jensen’s mouth, in all its plump, bruised glory. “Jesus Jared, did you _punch him?_ ”

Jared doesn’t answer her, only digs into his back pocket for his wallet to dump a few twenties onto the table as he gathers up her jacket and purse. “C’mon Sandy, let’s go,” he says, helping her up as she shoots the both of them flustered, worried looks.

“What about Jensen—“ she protests, looking back at him but Jared just urges her forward and within a heartbeat, the two of them are gone. Jensen’s left standing alone by the booth, rubbing the back of his neck as other diners curiously turn their heads to look at him.

Eventually he dazedly leaves the restaurant, sits himself down on the front curb, and pulls out his cell phone to see if Mike or Tom are still in the area to pick him up. 

Turns out Tom’s nearby. As Jensen waits, he isn’t thinking about anything really. Nothing’s sunk in yet—stubbornly refuses to, even as Jensen tries to approach it from a few different angles…

He gives up after awhile, his mind too cluttered with the sight of Jared, the smell and (god) the taste of Jared to properly assess anything. Settles for touching his fingers to his mouth, thrown off by how raw and warm his lips feel.

This really wasn’t what Jensen had in mind for his plan.

\-----

 

Downstairs in the lobby of the Bureau, school’s out and Cupids, Muses, and Mercurys alike are clumped in twos and threes, chit-chatting before they all break for the long weekend.

Chad leans against a marbled wall, mussing the gel out of his hair and loosening his tie as next to him Jensen warily looks on, deciding that Chad’s doing ‘sexy-disheveled’ a little too well for comfort—that’s supposed to be _Jensen’s_ signature look. He runs his hand through his own hair and pops open the cuff buttons on his sleeves for good measure, shifting his weight as he wonders what’s taking the others so damned long to get out of work.

Across the floor an elevator touches down, rolling back brass doors to reveal Tom as he moves along with the crowd that tumbles out. Tom catches sight of them and starts to make his way over, looking uncharacteristically unkempt with his hair sticking up and his collar rumpled and Jensen wonders if he’s finally jumpstarted some fashion consciousness into the other Cupids. Halfway across the room Tom glances down at himself and panic quickly flits through features when he realizes his shirt buttons are done up wrong—oh, wait. _Oh._

“Are they finally fucking?” Jensen asks incredulously, feeling the pieces slide into place as Tom walks over, blushing furiously while fixing his shirt.

“Yeah, I think so,” Chad replies, giving Jensen a curious sidelong glance. “You knew about it?”

“Who didn’t?” Jensen replies. “It’s about time, too.”

“Amen,” Chad agrees just as Tom reaches them.

“Hey guys!” he says, doing up the last button before straightening his tie. When he looks up Jensen’s struck by Tom’s stupid grin and proverbial tail wagging, and Jensen has to physically keep himself from patting the guy on the head like a puppy.

“Tom,” Chad says, nodding coolly. Jensen rolls his eyes at Chad’s aloofness and pushes off the wall, stepping forward to clap Tom on the back.

“Hey, so I heard you guys are finally banging,” Jensen says with a lopsided grin. “Congratulations, took you guys long enough.”

Tom blinks, eyes comically wide as he says, “Wait, how did you…?” He bites his lip and leans in. “You’re okay with it?” 

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” Jensen asks. “Just as long as you guys don’t start…”

In the corner of Jensen’s eye, something catches his attention. He blinks hard, shaking his head a little. Across the room, another elevator’s reached ground level and with it, a small crowd of immortals squeeze out of the small space and he could swear he just saw…

“Guys, tell me I’m seeing things,” Jensen says as his gaze bores into one lone figure, tall and broad-shouldered and slightly out of place in his impeccable, European-styled suit.

Tom swivels around to look. “Oh, that must be C-23, that big shot from New York,” he says.

“The hell’s he doing here all the way from New York?” Chad asks.

“The award ceremony’s next weekend so they’ve started flying in all the top agents from around the country,” Tom explains, frowning at Jensen’s horrified expression. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothin’,” Jensen says, even as the lobby seems to shrink exponentially. He’s struck with a sudden, terrifying need to not be spotted by Jeffrey Dean Morgan, by _Jeff_ —his mentor, ex-lover, or some other ill-fitting description of what they are or aren’t. He can’t handle seeing Jeff right now, not when Jensen’s still sore from everything they’ve never resolved like a wound that’s not scarring quite right. 

“Uh, guys, I just remembered,” Jensen says, backpedaling in the direction of the exit. “Gotta run an errand.” Alright, so he’ll readily admit that he’s essentially turning tail to flee, but dignity is non-applicable in a situation like this.

“What about tonight?” Tom asks, slight whine tingeing his voice.

“Give me a call when you guys figure out what we’re doing,” he says before turning around and hightailing it for the front door.

Tom wrinkles his brow and looks worriedly at Jensen’s retreating back. Chad just leans back against the wall and shrugs.

\-----

 

Just outside the double doors, Jensen hurries towards his car when somebody grabs his arm and swings him around.

“Hey, what—“

“Where you headed, cowboy?” Smiling down at him from the top step of the landing is Kristin Bell, a Muse in the same district as Kristin Kreuk. _Kristin and Kristin,_ god they hate that, and the _songs_ people come up with. She snaps her gum loudly and bounces down, blocking Jensen in his path. “I’ve been waiting for you guys for hours.”

“What, serious? We were waiting inside…” he frowns, pausing. This isn’t a good time to make small talk; Jeff could be coming out those doors at any moment, crashing into Jensen with that wide smile of his, that gruff voice sliding into his ears like syrup. “Listen, I’m gonna catch up with you guys later. I gotta, uh, get to the bank first.”

He lopes down the stairs and towards the nearby bank that’s just a few blocks over, not realizing that Kristin’s following him until a particularly loud snap of gum jerks him around. Jensen stares at her.

“What?” she asks. “I have some checks to deposit. Figure I’ll tag along with you until somebody figures out what we’re doing tonight. Geez, you don’t have to look at me like that.”

“Sorry,” Jensen says automatically, even as he’s wondering if he can get rid of her somehow. He needs some space to think about what he’s going to do about Jeff. Jensen likes plans. Plans make him feel sane, even if they don’t always go accordingly, like some recent debacles that will go unnamed. _Jared up in his space, trapping him against the wall. Jared’s lips against his, tasting like coconut and spices…_

Yeah, so maybe plans don’t always go the way they’re supposed to. But Jensen isn’t even going to get into that right now.

“Oh, stop pretending like you aren’t in love with him,” Kristin says, jogging forward a few paces to keep up with Jensen.

Jensen opens his mouth to tell her to mind her own beeswax when—“Hold on, _what?_ ” How the hell did Kristin know about him and Jared?

He gapes at her and Kristin giggles at Jensen’s supremely amusing expression before stopping to clarify, “It’s obvious you guys have some serious baggage. The other guys told me you used to work with C-23 back in Dallas, and when I was sitting in on the meeting with all the out-of-state Cupids just now. Trust me when I say he would _not_ stop asking about you.”

C-23…oh. She’s talking about _Jeff._

Kristin mistakes Jensen’s silence for encouragement, so she continues, “He wanted to know what your numbers looked like, what districts you’re working, stuff like that. Granted, I think all the Cupids in the room wanted to know to see if they were in the running this year, but still.” She wags her finger and says teasingly, “I think somebody _wikes_ you.”

Jensen crosses the sidewalk and hops up to the ATM machine, distractedly rifling through his wallet as he replies, “God, K-Bell, it ain’t even like that. First of all, there’s no way Jeff would… _like_ me,” he wrinkles his nose at the sheer lameness of that phrase. “And second, I’m not even. He’s not.”

Kristin crosses her arms and perches her butt on a nearby railing, smiling at Jensen’s start-stop sentences. “Yes?” she goads.

Jensen takes a deep breath, snatches the cash out of the machine slot, then says decisively, “I’m not even thinking about Jeff right now. There’s way more important stuff to worry about first, like my _job_.”

Nobody can argue with something as upstanding as that. Jensen tucks his money into his wallet and smirks, satisfied to just be done with Kristin’s uncomfortably astute observations about him and Jeff. “After you,” he gestures towards the ATM.

“Ohh, your job,” Kristin acknowledges, stepping forward. “You mean like how that human being can see you through your cloak, or how the super secret Cupid magic won’t work on him?” She shoots him a wide, innocent look as Jensen scowls. Jesus, she just dissed him and his entire _profession_ in one breath.

“Dude, how did you even hear about all that?” he grumbles.

“A little fairy told me,” Kristin says cheekily. Then she adds, “And don’t tell Mike I called him a fairy.”

Fucking Michael Rosenbaum and his big, gossipy mouth—Jensen grumps, “Okay, so what. I bet if one of your targets could see you all the time, and then suddenly turned rogue and refused to be inspired, you’d be worried too.”

Kristin looks a little contrite as she feeds an envelope into the machine, but Jensen barrels forward, “I mean, seriously, what the hell? I can’t figure this out, Jared, he’s like…” Jensen throws his hands up. “I don’t know. He’s not even human, or something. Nobody can figure out why he can see me in the first place, and now he’s not even falling in love right. And then last week at dinner, the guy up and _ki_ —“ Realizing the direction this is taking, Jensen abruptly shuts up. The fuck’s he running his mouth off for? “You know, never mind. It’s the weekend, and I don’t want to think about all this work crap.”

In the stunned silence that follows, Jensen glances over at Kristin, who’s looking at Jensen like he’s off his rocker. “Sorry, Jensen,” she says uncertainly. “I didn’t mean to bring all that up.”

Jensen sighs. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, trying to get his blood pressure back down with a few deep breaths. 

Still, it’s just… Jared’s become this huge, increasingly complicated enigma that won’t go away, no matter what Jensen does to try and fix it. The kid’s giant frame and gangly limbs have permanently latched onto Jensen’s brain, while echoes of Jared’s loud, unbridled laughter rattle through his skull like a song that’s been stuck in his head for weeks.

The two immortals walk back towards the Bureau, Kristin quietly fretting over Jensen while he draws himself inwards, thinking.

He really should’ve called the Charities in at the first sign of turbulence. They’re professionals at cleaning up wonky shit like this, and their steep price tag would’ve been well-earned by now. Maybe Jared and Sandy would’ve stayed in love the first time around and the only trouble they’d cause would be the regular paperwork, long filed away in the January folder by the BAA interns. 

Yeah, if Jensen had called in the Charities he’d probably still be miles ahead of all the other Cupids in the nation; a shoo-in for top Cupid, fourth year running. No weird invisibility problems, no mystifying failures of Bureau arsenal, and for god’s sake, no random guys shoving Jensen up against bathroom walls and _kissing him._

Except the more Jensen thinks about it, this _if only_ alternate reality doesn’t appeal to him like it would’ve, just a few weeks ago. Sure he’d nab the award again this year. Sure he’d get a great V-Day bonus, and yeah, it’d be awesome to show Jeff what he’d been missing for the last few years but…

Suddenly, saturating Jensen like a heat wave, it dawns on him. _Oh,_ thinks. _**Oh.**_

Jensen thinks of twinkly hazel eyes that shift color in the sun, of dopey hair that falls differently every time he sees it. He thinks about having to look _up_ for a change, about huge hands that could probably palm his head like a basketball, and Jensen knits his brows, wondering, _Was it like this the whole time?_

“Hey, Jensen,” Kristin’s voice cuts him off mid-thought. “Your cell phone just beeped.”

“Oh,” he says, reaching in his back pocket to pull out his phone. There’s a text message from Tom letting him know where they’re at, and Jensen sighs with relief. After all this information that’s only just begun to filter down into his consciousness, he could use a stiff drink or two.

“Looks like it’s the Great Lakes again,” Jensen says, flipping his phone shut and tugging Kristin close to his side. “You’d think there’s only one bar in this whole godforsaken city.” She stumbles a little and laughs, glad to see him breaking out of his funk, if only for a little while.

“I’ll buy you a drink,” she offers.

“You better,” Jensen replies with a lifted eyebrow. “All that stuff you figured out about me n’ Jeff? Make it a scotch. A good one, too.”

She offers him a shrug paired with a sheepish grin. Aw, now Jensen feels guilty for biting her head off earlier. He slings an arm around her petite shoulders as an apology and affectionately pulls her along as they walk back to the parking lot.

\-----

 

Chris, Kristin and Kristin sit opposite Rosenbaum, Tommy, and Chad. Jensen hangs off the side of a bench seat, all his weight on one ass cheek, sunken into well-worn vinyl upholstery. After he’s mulled over his shit, he looks around the table and cuts Chad off mid-sentence.

“So guys, I think I’m gonna tell Jared about this whole Cupid thing,” Jensen says, ignoring Chad’s irritated huff in favor of staring holes into the wooden table, wondering why he’s even bringing this up to his friends, especially seeing as how he’d only barely figured it out in his head not two minutes ago. But maybe that’s why he wants to get it out there. See what other people think about him confessing everything to Jared.

He gets blank stares, followed by _Oh, you got me_ laughter but Jensen just frowns and says, “Guys, this isn’t a joke.”

There’s a significant pause while the immortals wait for Jensen to get on with punch line, but he just stubbornly sets his jaw. Soon a chorus of loud, increasingly rude inquiries along the lines of “What the fuck are you talking about?” crescendoes, wherein his friends pretty much explode into a furor that would get them thrown out of the bar had they not been invisible and imperceptible, but Jensen just calmly covers his ears. It’s _his_ decision, and there isn’t anything illegal or wrong about a mortal/immortal liaison. After all, demi-gods, anyone?

“But he can’t even _see you,_ Jen!”

“Uh, actually he can see me all the time now,” Jensen replies morosely. He bats away a few more indignant rebuttals but it’s no use, nobody at the table’s on his side about this. Not even Kane.

“Jensen,” Chris says seriously, leaning across the table and cornering him into making eye contact. “Get your hands off your ears.”

Wasn’t like Jensen couldn’t hear everything they were saying anyway, so he complies. “What, you gonna tell me I’m crazy too?”

“Well that’s given, but it ain’t just that.” Chris licks his lips. “I mean, you’re into this kid? Really?”

Jensen pauses. Thinks about Jared for a moment and after his pulse quickens and mouth dries, he says, “Yeah. Yeah, Chris, I’m into him.”

If Jensen had thought that would get his buddy to back him up, it doesn’t. Instead, Chris just sighs like Jensen’s signed his own death certificate and says, “Well this sure as hell ain’t the way to make him like you.”

“What do you mean?” Jensen asks suspiciously.

Chris explains, “So let’s say you tell this guy you like him. And then you tell him everything. Being a Cupid, working at the Bureau. Then you tell him about Zeus, gods and immortals, the whole shebang.” Chris waits like Jensen’s gonna catch on but to be honest, he doesn’t have a clue where this is going. Chris finally asks, “Well, what’s Jared to think?”

What’s Jared gonna think? Jensen hadn’t gotten that far yet. Hell, it took him over a month to even figure out that his reactions to Jared were a result of attraction versus job-related stress.

The immortals around the table peter themselves out into silence. In the absence of white noise Jensen looks up to meet the eyes of his friends, who’ve finally decided to wait for his attention before they’d put forth a full, cohesive argument.

“First of all,” Kristin (Kreuk) says, “Jared’s straight.” Kristin (Bell) nods sympathetically, mouthing the words _As an arrow._

Tom rattles off some abysmally low statistic of successful mortal/immortal relationships, and Mike just keeps chuckling at everyone like he’s the only one who’s calling Jensen’s bluff. It’s Chris who finally puts it the most convincingly. “Jenny,” he says. “The kid’s gonna think you’re crazy.”

Huh, he may have a point there. In the previous deliberation that’d gone through Jensen’s mind, this issue hadn’t come up. Sure there was some shit-flipping about whether Jared would like him back, or alright, if he was even remotely _gay_ (whereupon Jared’s history was entirely against him). There was even a little freaking out about what Venus might say about breaking up one of the BAA’s registered couples because seriously, there must be so much freaking paperwork that goes into reversing an order that comes down from Destiny herself. But through all of his (he’d thought) thorough consideration, Jensen had never once thought about how Jared would take the information. It’s the _truth,_ so he’d never imagined somebody could ignore all the facts after Jensen had connected the dots for him.

Once he realizes Jensen’s serious about this, Mike pokes Jensen in the neck and says with worry creeping into his voice, “C’mon, Jenny. The kid’s gonna think you’re a _lunatic._ I mean, what’re you gonna do when we’re around? Just ignore us? ‘Cause otherwise you’re gonna be talking to thin air, in his eyes at least.”

Okay, so maybe Jensen doesn’t have the details of his plan all ironed out just yet. But what else is he supposed to do? “Look, I can’t even function properly anymore,” Jensen grouses. “I just… I need to get this off my chest. If he can’t take the truth, it’s not like it’s gonna work out down the line anyway.”

Hearing the words said aloud, Jensen stiffens his resolve. Because yeah, what else can he do? Feed Jared a long, intricate tale of a fabricated life and career? No, the truth’s gonna come out sooner or later, and Jensen’s a busy guy who ain’t got all day to build a cushion around Jared’s ability or inability to cope with facts. Either he accepts it, or he doesn’t. Simple as that.

“Hey rock star, don’t look now,” Kristin says, taking a sip of her beer and peering up through her blond bangs.

“What?” Jensen replies automatically, distracted as he follows her line of sight. “Oh.”

Whoa, déjà-vu. It takes that same, seemingly interminable stretch of time for Jensen’s gaze to cross miles of rumpled denim and cotton shirt—pink stripes, this time—he feels the same jumble of anticipation and dread in the pit of his stomach. His eyes trip over the same pointed jaw line, squint over a tongue curled between flattened lips, until…

“Jensen,” Jared says, hands in his jacket. “Hey.” Jensen stares, watching him fiddle with the lint in his pockets. 

“Jared,” he says stupidly. God, this requires another scotch.

\-----

 

Jared barrels into his truck fifteen minutes later, slamming the door shut with a huge bang that rocks the cabin on its tires.

What the fuck. Seriously, what. The. Fuck. Out of all the—Jesus, Jared’s heard some pretty creative rejections before, but this one takes the cake. Takes the eighteen-layer, airbrushed and frosted cake because what the fuck—he’s never heard anything more outrageous in his entire _life._

“ _So,_ ” Jensen had said, looking around in that manner of his before saying, “ _There’s something I gotta tell ya_.” And Jared had been nervous at first, muddled in his own thoughts of how he should act after he’d—god, last week at the restaurant—

Jared had been so embroiled in thinking what he should say or do, whether he should apologize or (god) do it again, that he’d almost missed Jensen’s words. _Had_ missed them at first, blinking retardedly as he asked him to repeat himself, when Jensen just stood up and pushed him out the front door, hand on his lower back and making Jared stutter.

“ _Jared, listen to me,_ ” Jensen had said, licking his lips and Jared had been entranced by them, taking a trip down memory lane as he remembered how they’d felt under his own. But then Jensen just waited, like he _knew_ Jared wasn’t paying attention, and he eventually had to tear his eyes away from that full mouth to look up. 

Jensen looked freaked out, for lack of better wording. Jared could practically make a mattress out of the tension that rolled off of him. Feeling kind of sorry for Jensen, and simultaneously relieved he wasn’t the one worse off, Jared pulled himself together and forced himself to listen to whatever it was Jensen wanted to say.

Kinda wishes he hadn’t, now.

Jared fumbles for his keys, lifting his butt up to wrestle it out of his front pocket. He jams the car key into the ignition and lets the rest jangle angrily in the claustrophobic silence of the car.

It’s just… it’s stupid, Jared knows, but for a moment he swore Jensen was interested. Thought maybe Jensen had been kissing him back the other night. Boy, was Jared deluded. For a guy to say he’s from outer space—or what was it, that he was Cupid or something?—he must’ve been pretty keen on getting Jared off his case.

Well, he ain’t stupid. Jared knows a _get away from me_ when he sees it, so fine. He’ll stay away. Plenty of bars got New Castle on tap, and Great Lakes is a dive, anyway. ‘Sides, he’s got Sandy. Beautiful, gorgeous, perfect, _easy_ Sandy.

Jared fumes some more, attempting to ignore the way Jensen had looked when Jared stomped away. Eyes a little bright like he’d been hoping for Jared to just pack it in and _believe_ him. The guy sure put on a good act, but yeah, no. Jared ain’t _stupid._

Once he can see straight again, Jared turns the engine on and pulls out of the parking lot. He keeps pushing the sight of Jensen’s expression (open and hopeful) out of his mind, but it doesn’t work. It doesn’t work, and the finality of Jensen’s dark green eyes as they’d shuttered closed haunts Jared all the way back to his apartment.

\-----

 

The next morning, Jensen gets fired from work.

“Hold on, _what?_ ”

Samantha just shoots him a sympathetic look.

“Wait—“ Jensen walks up to her desk, then paces back towards the door. If this is some sort of, he doesn’t know, _joke_ that Rosenbaum or the Kristins put him up to… “This ain’t funny, Ferris,” Jensen finally growls.

“I didn’t say it was. What I said, was you can’t work at the Bureau of Amorous Affairs anymore but that we’d give you a full recommendation to any other position you see fit to apply for.”

Jensen shoves the fabric of his jacket behind him and places his hands on his hips. “Still ain’t funny.” Samantha says nothing.

When Jensen’s paced through the room three times over, he stops, turns, and looks straight into Samantha’s solemn face. “Oh my god, this isn’t funny,” he says, horror creeping into his voice. “But…” Jensen struggles. “But _why?_ ”

“What do you mean why?” Samantha asks. Jensen looks at her mistrustfully as he walks back to the other corner of the room, but there isn’t a hint of sarcasm in her reply. “And quit pacing. You’re making me dizzy,” she says, kicking out the armchair and pointing at it. Jensen obediently walks over and sits down.

“I mean, why am I being fired?” he repeats, though seriously, is he getting punked? It’s gotta be Rosenbaum, the little asshole. Must’ve been getting back at him for when Jensen switched out his sunglasses for low-prescription ones last Tuesday. Samantha’s expression tells him otherwise though, and Jensen resignedly thinks, _Some timing._ He feels shitty enough right now, what with Jared running screaming from him on Friday and then spending the rest of the long weekend moping on Chris’ couch. He doesn’t need get fucking _fired_ from his _career_ today.

Samantha takes pity on him and leans in, speaking slowly as if he were a child, “You’re not getting fired. You’re getting _discharged_ because you fell for a client.” Jensen blinks at her, feeling indignant but he’s not sure about which part yet.

Eventually Jensen asks, “Who told you about—”

Samantha rolls her eyes and adds, “C’mon Jensen, nobody has to _say_ anything. How do you think we track all our couples?”

“Point taken. So then, what’s the problem?”

Samantha stares at him. “What, didn’t you go to orientation?”

Of course Jensen went to orientation. He remembers that tiny box of a room, the one without any windows, and all those stupid chairs and tables set up like a middle school science lab. There’d been about fifteen, twenty other rookies that year, and that was where he’d met Chris. Jeff, too.

“Orientation…” Jensen mulls aloud, trying to remember—oh yeah, Jensen remembers.

He remembers checking out Jeff’s ass for the majority of those five days, using the view to temper the excruciating boredom. The elder Cupid had lead the practical as well as theoretical aspects of the introductory program, and though Jensen had been eager to get his hands on the arsenal and gear, he’d pretty much spent the theory lessons trying to catch Jeff’s attention by being a loudmouth and a flirt.

What? It’d worked, hadn’t it?

“I, uh,” Jensen smiles sheepishly. “It was a long time ago…I kind of forget all the rules and details.”

He expects some sort of complaint from Venus but she just overlooks it and wearily explains, “Jensen, you can’t go falling in love with your targets. The magic we use for the bullet formulae works on the target’s susceptibility to proffered love; in this case, yours. His first physical touch with you will immediately imprint him to fall in love right back.”

“So you’re saying…” Jensen frowns, trying to sort through the jargon. “That’s why him and Sandy aren’t staying together, isn’t it?”

“Right.”

“But then, why isn’t he in love with me?” Jensen asks. What? He’s only curious from a scientific point of view.

“The formulae only works on humans,” she answers, reclining in her seat and swiveling back and forth. “So while the love you’re offering has the same properties as a human’s, and therefore works as a sort of jamming device for the next person’s, the physical touch required to spark the reciprocation basically hasn’t happened yet. He’d only be in love if he got hit with the Alpha formulae, but that was used on the girl.”

“So… what? Have the bullets done anything to him?”

“In short, no.”

Dammit, this stuff’s making his head hurt. “Where’d you learn all this, anyway?” Jensen asks grumpily.

“I have a law degree in Mortal Properties and Theory. How else do you think I got to be Venus?” she asks, casting a disparaging look at Jensen.

“I dunno. Fucked someone?”

Samantha’s mouth quirks, like she’s torn between propriety or just giving in and laughing, and she eventually succumbs to the latter, prompting Jensen to smile victoriously. “You little ass,” she huffs between slowing chuckles. “I’d fire you if I could.”

“Yeah, so,” Jensen holds up a finger. “About that.” He’s not really pissed about it, just in shock more like. The more time he has to let it digest though, he realizes he never liked his job much anyway. Just kind of fell into it during his whole Big fucking Romance with Jeff. Then after that got gutted, he’d only stayed on out of convenience since he was so good at it. “Full recommendation, you said?”

“Yeah,” Samantha says, setting her elbows back on the desk. She leans in with a smile on her lips, saying, “Not that you need it with a record like yours. You can do anything you want, Jensen.”

And really, that was all the encouragement he needed. Jensen stands up, dusts himself off and holds out his hand. She clasps it between both her palms and says, “It’s been a pleasure. Even if you are a prima donna.”

Jensen laughs out loud. “Likewise, _Venus._ ”

He crosses the room once more and reaches the large wooden doors, turning around to say, “I’ll be calling for those glowing references you’re promising.”

“Of course,” Samantha replies.

Jensen turns back around and twists the brass knob. There’s something more he wants to ask for, but it’s stupid, he _knows_ it’s stupid. On the other hand, he hasn’t got a lot to lose. Not his job, certainly. 

“Hey, Ferris,” Jensen says timidly.

“Yeah?”

“What about, um…” Jensen meets her curious gaze. “Could you guys like, shoot Jared for me or something?” He feels his ears burning. “As a, uh, I dunno… severance package or something?”

“Oh, honey,” she says, and that’s answer enough for him. “You know that’s not the way it works.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says embarrassedly. “Just figured I’d ask.”

Jensen closes the door behind him. He rings for the elevator and waits, the motions familiar and fluid from years of muscle memory, yet wholly different when he knows it might be the last time he’ll be going through them.

On the ride down, there are no lists of names to memorize or driving routes to map out. It feels _weird_ , like something’s been vacuumed out of his life—and in a sense, it has. Jensen’s been a Cupid for the last six years and his identity’s long been wrapped up in his job description. It’s not the end of the world, though. There’s a shit ton of stuff he can do that’s cooler and hell, higher-paying than being a Cupid.

By the time Jensen’s crossed the Bureau parking lot and getting into his car, he feels okay about it already. He turns on the engine, ignoring the anxiety pressing in on him when outside his window a group of human teenagers glance at him in passing. Panicked, he looks up at the sky to make sure he can still see his fellow immortals and only after watching the cars stream above him for a few minutes does he calm down. _You’re still an immortal,_ Jensen tells himself. _Jesus, get a grip._

Of course he’s still an immortal. He’s still _him_ , only now with a kick-ass resume, top-notch references, and all the free time he needs to figure out what he wants to do next. In the end, maybe this whole Jared fiasco was for the better.  
 _  
I should thank the guy,_ Jensen thinks, gripping the wheel a little too tight. _If he didn’t think I was insane, that is._

Yeah, maybe the Jared thing will work out in the end. But it doesn’t keep Jensen from feeling like shit right now.


	4. Chapter 4

_**5:00 PM, February 14. Olympus Room, BAA building  
Annual Bureau of Amorous Affairs Awards ** _

 

The crowd applauds at an appropriate volume and length, the sound rising and falling like a familiar soundtrack to the Bureau’s annual BAA Awards. Zeus finishes his speech and steps down, fierce smile on his face as he joins his son’s table in the front of the room.

Jeff’s not really paying attention though. He picks at his chicken and zucchini, trying not to be too obvious about scanning the thirty or forty round tables crammed into the Bureau’s largest ballroom for a familiar face. A particular face.

However, his subtlety is thwarted when Patrick takes notice of Jeff’s restless eyes. His voice cuts in, “What are you looking for?”

Jeff turns around and rubs at his face, hand skimming over short stubble. Patrick Dempsey, C-70 of the Staten Island District and friend of twenty years, reaches over with his fork and steals a carrot off Jeff’s plate. “Didn’t look like you were going to eat that,” he explains offhand, crunching loudly.

“I’m looking for C-97,” Jeff eventually answers, hoping Patrick’s too buzzed off the champagne to put two and two together—

“Oh, you’re looking for _Jensen._ ”

—or not. “Yeah, I’m looking for Jensen,” he sighs.

“Jeff, why would you do that to yourself?” Patrick asks harshly like he’s taking up a fight that’s been brewing for awhile when thankfully, he gets drowned out by the next wave of applause.

The Venus from Washington, Kate Walsh, walks across the stage and takes the mike to announce the first block of awards to be handed out. While Jeff fixes his attention on Kate, the girl at the table next to them tips her chair backwards, nudges his shoulder, and says, “You’re looking for C-97?”

Not realizing he and Patrick had an audience for their conversation, Jeff quickly brushes his irritation away and replies, “Yeah. You know him?”

“He got discharged last week,” she says, scandalized. “It’s making its way across the room. Pass it on.” She flips her brown hair back over her shoulder, hitting Jeff squarely in the neck, then innocuously tips back towards her own table and dovetails into the conversation there. 

Feeling like he’s been hit and run with gossip, Jeff mulls over the information for a moment before swiveling all the way around in his seat and tapping the girl on the shoulder. “Hey, where did you hear that?” he asks, increasing the pressure to more insistent patting when she ignores him, but he quickly gets shushed by the people around him. “Okay, okay,” he says, hands up in defeat.

He reaches for his fork and knife instead. Tries to saw off some of the chicken breast on his plate, but he doesn’t even want any chicken right now, so he just puts the silverware down and pointedly ignores Patrick’s curious expression.

Onstage, Venus continues, “Now I know you all must be dying to hear me talk for the next two hours”—the crowd titters—“But I’ll stop my yammering and let our local Venus, Samantha Ferris, introduce the nominees.”

It’s going to be a long time before they get to the good stuff, like naming the Bureau’s Highest-Grossing Cupid of the year. And while Jeff knows he’s got a good chance of nabbing the award, it still doesn’t make him want to actually sit through all the punctilio—blah blah millenniums of tradition, blah blah and so on—this stuff hasn’t changed since the last equally dull time he’d attended.

Jeff takes a long sip from his champagne, wondering about the validity of that girl’s comment about Jensen being discharged, but it’s so far-fetched he’s tempted to shrug it off. Jensen’s probably just inconveniently hidden from view by one of the Ionic columns or perhaps by some of the, er, _larger_ men and women dappled throughout the room. The champagne runs out before Jeff’s done drinking so he lowers the flute, ready to signal for another from one of the standby waiters when across the room, his eyes land on—wait, really?—his eyes land on _Jensen_. He’s standing in the open crook of one of the side doors, the ones that lead backstage, and he’s watching Chris Kane receive an award onstage.

He looks out of place though, and that’s when Jeff notices—Jensen’s wearing a T-shirt and jeans, and sneakers. He even remembers that T-shirt from years ago— _Jensen strewn across Jeff’s bed, the sunlight playing on his golden skin. Jeff dangling that shirt in his hand, charmed and amused as Jensen jumps for it and misses, crashing into him. Jeff’s thrown backwards ass-first, Jensen’s sprawled all over him and tangled up in his limbs_ —

It dawns on him that, Jesus, if Jensen’s backstage in his day clothes, that rumor must be true. _Jensen’s no longer a Cupid_ , he thinks wonderingly.

As if he could tell he was on someone’s mind, Jensen turns around and disappears through the discreet door. It isn’t a matter of thinking when Jeff bolts out of his chair; he just knows he needs some answers, some explanations—hell, some explaining of his own to do, he knows that. Jeff ignores Patrick’s alarm and the curious looks of all the seated immortals that he jostles into on his way to the front of the room. Jeff makes it to the side door, slaps his hand on the doorknob and takes a deep breath for fortification before he wrenches it open and dashes in.

\-----

 

It isn’t all that bad, Jensen thinks, sitting back here apart from the crowd, just watching and chilling like it’s a show on TV. Like he wasn’t supposed to be in that table over there, in that empty space between Chris and Chad that the organizers hadn’t had time to rearrange around. At least he got to come at all; Samantha had snuck him in backstage after she’d done her bit in introducing the nominees for Most Creative Hit.

When Jensen hears his boy Kane announced as the winner for that stunt he pulled with the target’s bulletproof vest, Jensen can’t help but want a good look instead of the weird angle he gets from the back, half-covered with curtain and wires. He hopes he isn’t making the ceremony look unprofessional or anything when he opens the door a crack and sneaks out of it, feeling conspicuous in his worn T-shirt and jeans that have hardly seen the light of day since college.

Jensen leans up against the doorjamb and watches the proceedings. Chris gives a goofy little speech that—blink and you’ll miss it—pokes fun at Samantha and the Bureau. “Gotta hand it to her though,” Chris says, “—doling out happy endings out like it’s candy when we can’t hardly get it ourselves. Kinda makes me wish somebody’d just shoot me, working here.” Chris throws out a charming grin that blindsides half the audience, earning scattered but appreciative laughter from the ones who’d caught the small jab at the BAA. Backstage Jensen hears Samantha bellow and he snickers quietly to himself.

He’s gotta admit though, Chris sure got it right. While humans might catch a break getting oversight in their romances, there’s no such system in place for immortals. Nah, stuff like _love_ is as arbitrary and fickle as which socks to wear for the day, and while normally Jensen could appreciate the unfortunate irony in his stumble into love for Jared, he’s too tired for cynicism tonight. Between trying to drag his ass out of Mopedom and ignoring the way Jeff fits in his suit like a well-tailored glove, Jensen can hardly keep himself from fleeing and going home to sleep the day/week/month off. Still, he’s got a duty to his friends.

After Chris’ speech is over, Jensen returns to the relative darkness backstage and lets the door silently shut behind him. Two steps later the door suddenly bursts open and Jensen jumps back, valiantly fighting back a shriek.

“Holy sh—“ he manages, slapping a palm over his thudding chest. “What the fuck, man? Scared the shit outta me.”

The lighting the way it is, way brighter in the ballroom, Jensen can’t see much except the broad figure of the man who’d just barged inside. Still, there’s something familiar in the silhouette…

“Jensen,” the man says. Then after a pause, “Hey.”

…and, of course. 

“Jeff,” he says, trying hard not to notice the heady scent that drags memories, kicking and screaming, out from the back of Jensen’s brain. _Late, sleepy mornings. Quickies between hits. Solid muscle he loved to explore with hands, mouth, anything. The smell of soap Jeff used to use_ —and still does, apparently.

“Can we talk?” Jeff says, stepping closer and Jensen involuntarily backs up as light from the stage filters over them, falling over Jeff’s face. Jeff looks older now, his jaw squarer and salt in his peppered stubble. _Still hot, though._

Dude, that horny guy sitting on his shoulder needs to shut the hell up. Jensen hesitantly leads the two of them down the narrow hall and into a secluded space out back near the dressing room, sandwiched between curtains and a plywood wall. He briefly checks that they’re good and alone, preparing for what might bubble up to be a spectacular argument. He can feel the pent-up resentment in his bones already.

“What do you want?” Jensen asks, trying hard to weed out the antagonism from his voice. It doesn’t look like he’s succeeding though, if Jeff’s wrinkled forehead is any indication.

“Look, I know I got a lot of explaining to do.”

 _Hell yeah you do_ , Jensen thinks. He deserves his own award for keeping that to himself. Instead, he replies nonchalantly, “So start.”

“Hold on,” Jeff says. “I want to know how you got discharged, first.”

Like Jeff gets to decide how this little reunion’s gonna go? Fuck that. Jensen crosses his arms and leans back against the wall. “I’m waiting,” he says.

Jeff watches Jensen for a moment, taking in the defiant stance and slight curl of his lip. He sighs, “Fair enough.” Thinking hard about how to phrase three years of absence and silence without making himself sound like a complete asshole, Jeff starts slowly, “When I left back then, it wasn’t about you.”

Jensen scoffs, ready to shoot back a remark but then Jeff’s palm thuds against the plywood behind him and Jensen’s jolted into swallowing his words. He forces himself not to duck out from under Jeff’s arm because that’d just look _weak_ but dammit, with every inch of proximity gained, he feels his leverage and determination slip like sneakers on mud. From the way Jensen can’t seem to catch his breath, it seems no attraction was lost between the years but that’s not what he needs right now. No, Jensen can’t forget why he’s pissed at the guy. _You’ve waited three years for this explanation,_ he sternly reminds himself.

“It wasn’t about you,” Jeff repeats and Jensen holds his tongue. “You remember my ex-wife?”

Well, that he hadn’t been expecting. Still, Jensen nods cautiously. Jeff continues, “She caught up with me back then. Told me we had a daughter. Six years old; well, nine, now.” Jensen’s eyes widen and he wants to ask more, but Jeff keeps going, “I can’t just ignore something like that, you know? I thought about telling you, I swear I did, Jen, but next thing I knew she was asking me to join her in New York, help her raise our kid.”

Jesus, Jeff’s got a _kid_. “Does she… does she have a name?”

“Yeah,” he says, genuine smile spilling across his face. It hurts to look at because once upon a time, that smile was reserved for Jensen. “Her name’s Rebecca.”

“You could’ve told me.”

“I know. And damn it Jen, I wish I did. But what we had before, it was so _easy_ , and I just didn’t want to turn it into something complicated and ugly. Long distance would’ve been hard—hell, _impossible_ for us, not to mention the whole daughter thing.”

“It might’ve worked if you tried,” Jensen says grudgingly, even though he knows Jeff’s probably right.

“Yeah, maybe. But I didn’t. I went to New York. Did the daddy thing while I worked part-time and her mom concentrated on her career—that’s why she even told me about Becky at all. She got promoted and couldn’t take care of her on her own.”

Jensen nods along, trying to read between the lines and figure out how all this back-story leads up to Jeff being _here, now_. It still doesn’t make any sense to him though, so he prompts, “But you’re working again. As a Cupid, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Jeff says. He takes a step closer, the footstep echoing in the dark hallway as behind them, the ceremony continues at a faded murmur. Jensen stuffs down his mounting restlessness as Jeff presses in and says, “Patrick convinced me to start again—“

“Patrick?”

“Friend,” Jeff explains distractedly. “But that wasn’t why I came back.”

Before Jensen has a chance to speculate, Jeff clinches the distance between then, the toes of their shoes butting. He palms Jensen’s jaw to tilt his mouth up and meets it with his own.

It’s a tentative kiss, asking and answering more questions than the ones already bouncing around Jensen’s mind. But it’s a good kiss— _really_ good—tasting warm and sweet. Jeff’s stubble grazes his skin and it’s comforting, recalling all the places that familiar graze used to scrape across—burrowed in Jensen’s neck, sweeping over a bare shoulder, traveling south… He’d missed this. God, he’d missed _Jeff._

Still, it’s too much, too soon, and Jensen’s body stiffens. Jeff backs up with an audible parting of mouths. “What is it?” he asks huskily.

Not realizing he’d reached up to card his fingers through Jeff’s short hair, Jensen sheepishly slides his hands out. He stiffens his resolve and says, “I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“I can’t do this. I can’t just…let you waltz back into my life. I mean, what do you want from me? Am I supposed to just let you take me home like I’m some trophy wife?”

“Well, you’re not obligated to stay here anymore. Besides, Jensen, you can do anything you want in New York. All the main offices are there, anyway,” Jeff reasons, thumb tracing distracting circles along Jensen’s cheekbone.

“Yeah, but…” His eyes flutter shut as he leans into the caress, struggling to remember what reasons he has to back away from what Jeff’s proposing. But behind closed lids, it isn’t Jeff he’s seeing. It’s—  
 _  
Jared’s hands, larger and bonier but hot—so much hotter as they force him to look up. Jared’s mouth is tighter and fierce as it devours Jensen, lips first but the hunger doesn’t stop there, it feels like Jared’s tearing whatever he wants out of Jensen and all that’s left after he opens up and gives Jared **everything** , all that’s left is Jared’s betrayed expression. _

“There’s somebody else,” Jensen says though he hears the words in his ears before he’s even decided; says it before he has a chance to plan what he’ll follow it up with.

“Someone else,” Jeff repeats dumbly. He peers closer and even though it’s dark backstage, he can see the guilt etched in Jensen’s features. “There isn’t anybody else,” he reads.

“Well, he’s not…we’re not—I mean,” Jensen stutters, resolution floundering under Jeff’s knowing gaze. But then he flashes back to _Jared_ and it’s not even a tough call anymore, not really. Jensen straightens up and looks Jeff in the eye. “There’s somebody else.”

There’s no mistaking the message there. Jeff reluctantly pulls his hands away from the sides of Jensen’s neck and pockets them, backing up a few steps until they’re proper again. Jeff pauses, not knowing what to say but when it’s clear Jensen isn’t changing his mind, he finally replies, “Well if there’s ever a vacancy, you know where to find me.”

Jensen runs his hand behind his neck, trying to rub off the tingling imprint of Jeff’s fingers. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, okay.”

In the silence that yawns between them, they both hastily perk their ears when onstage, beyond the maze of thin plywood walls, curtains and equipment, they hear someone announce the nominees for the year’s highest-grossing Cupid. Jeff’s name comes up in the list so Jensen jerks his head towards the stage. “That baby’s all yours,” he says.

At Jeff’s reluctance, Jensen urges, “C’mon. I was the only Cupid who could give you a run for your money, and now that I’m out of the picture…” Jensen puts his hand out towards the stage, inviting Jeff to the award.

“You know where to find me,” Jeff says one last time, his gaze searching Jensen’s. But then they hear his name called out as the winner, so he turns around and walks out the hallway.

Jensen leans into the wall again and slides down, landing on his ass. He thunks his head against the plywood, closes his eyes, and waits for it...

Out in the ballroom the crowd roars with applause when Jeff appears from the side door. There’s good-natured laughter when he clambers onstage, having come out the side opposite the stairs. Jeff takes the golden crossbow statuette in hand and lifts it high in the air to a cheering crowd.

Jensen takes a deep breath; exhales slowly as the muted clapping winds down. 

Even though he’s just turned down what might’ve been his best bet for a Happily Ever After, Jensen thinks it was probably the right choice.

_Jared spots him, calling his name as his whole body lights up—eyes crinkling and mouth turned up in glee, shoulders lifting and lungs expanding and yeah, even his stupid hair looked delighted to see Jensen—_

Yeah, it was the right choice. It was the only choice, really.

\-----

 

It’s not that he believes him. No, Jared’s pretty damned sure Jensen’s lying through his Crest white teeth just to make it easier on Jared— _Oh, let’s let the idiot boy down gently. Let him think I’m crazy, that way he won’t get his little heart all broke._ Well, shucks. Fuck that.

So while Jared’s not _gullible_ (usually), he sure as hell is driving himself crazy from wondering about what Jensen’s really been doing, where he’s been going and if he’s still wearing those disgustingly well-pressed suits all the time. Or wondering if he’s even gonna get to see Jensen, ever again. It’s true Jared’s the one who backed out from all this, but that was a week ago. He didn’t realize how invested he was in the whole thing until today when, in the middle of refilling his gas tank, it suddenly hit him that this shitty feeling he’s had all week was because he _missed_ the crazy fuck.

And Jared doesn’t like feeling shitty. So he topped off his gas tank and bounced—well, after picking up a Gatorade at the gas station first (it’s dehydrating being this tall!). After some hesitation, he’d thrown in a chocolate Valentine’s Day thing too—half-off because it’s Valentine’s Day already—off the slightly dilapidated Hallmark display by the front register. The chocolate was for _himself_ , of course. Not for Sandy, seeing as how he’d inadvertently broken up with her when he moaned Jensen’s name the other night. And most definitely _not_ for Jensen because Jensen hates him. Jared sighs.

Running out of ideas for what to do to feel better, Jared starts driving around aimlessly, thinking about nothing much at all except, damn it. He still wants Jensen. Even if Jensen doesn’t want him. Well, tough— _tell it to my goddamned face_ , Jared thinks.

Trouble is, he notices during his fifth loop through Hollywood, is that he doesn’t know how to actually say that to the guy seeing as how he doesn’t have a flying clue as to where he is. But hey…what about Jensen’s confession? That had to have been _some_ truth to that, right? Because the best stories are based on reality, and Jensen’s story had been pretty darned detailed. Like…

Jared wrings his memory like a wet towel, knowing he’s got the information in there somewhere. Eventually it drips out, and he remembers— _Wilcox Avenue, between Holly’s and that apartment building. I go there every morning for work_ , and sure Jared had laughed disbelievingly at that—he’s been to Holly’s and he’d sure as hell remember a 29-story building in the middle of Wilcox—but hey, what’s he got to lose? It’s only a short drive away to double check.

Jared pulls a U-turn at the next intersection and heads on over. Parks his car along the street in front the small bar, understandably deserted in the daytime, and looks for the illustrious Bureau of Love, or whatever it was Jensen had named it.

As expected, there’s nothing there. Just Holly’s, some fenced-off space, and then the apartment building. Still, Jared gets out of his truck, locking it with his keychain as it chirps back, then walks up to the fence—he’s just stretching his legs though, and that sinking rock in his gut is just ‘cause he needs to fill up his gas tank again, twice in as many hours. Right, that’s exactly why he’s feeling disappointed.

Boy, does Jared feel like an idiot.

He flips around and falls against the chain-link fence, springing lightly as he curses under his breath. According to Mr. I’m-Cupid-and-You’re-Dumped, there’s supposed to be a tall-ass building here with a big-ass parking lot. So what is this, Harry Potter? Is Jared supposed to take a running leap at the metal fence?

 _Maybe,_ a stupid little voice tells him. Jared frowns and turns back around, loops his fingers through the fence and hesitantly tests its physical properties—nope, it’s real. And Jared’s officially never seeing Jensen again.

 _Fuck._ This wasn’t supposed to happen. Jared was supposed to come here, and Jensen’s made up story was supposed to accidentally have some truth to it. There was supposed to be a tall government building here, or wherever it is Jensen really works, and Jared was gonna waltz in, ask the hot receptionist to page him down (do people still use pagers?). Jensen would show up all awkward cute as always and Jared was _supposed_ to smack the truth outta him. Or kiss it out of him, whichever came first. Whatever, Jared’s not picky. Still, he has the whole thing all played out in his head, Jared can even _see_ it—he’s supposed to be staring at the big parking lot behind this chain-link fence right now, studded with some Camrys and Priuses and shadowed by a tall but normal-looking building with an ordinary-Joe door, the brass numbers 1522 nailed into it—

Wait.

Jared backs up unsteadily.

Hang on, this wasn’t here before.

To his far right—yeah, there’s Holly’s. To the left, Jared looks up and sees the side of the apartment building. But in front of him, right in front of his nose is a chain-link fence that stretches almost a block wide as building number 1522 towers over it in all its 29-storyed glory. _Jesus._

Feeling numb, Jared walks down the sidewalk and up to the entrance, climbs the four or five steps there and lets his knuckles hover over the wooden door. Is he supposed to—is there a doorbell? Or is there some secret code or something? Jared racks his brain, trying to remember anything of the sort. Nothing comes up though, so he knocks hesitantly at first, then louder when nothing happens.

There’s no reply still, so he hops off the steps and cranes his neck up. Did Jensen happen to mention which floor he worked on? Maybe it’s low enough for some good old-fashioned pebble-tossing. As Jared searches the building façade for any telling details, a wide banner magically appears, forming left to right as he reads: _8053rd—Annual—Bureau—of Amorous—Affairs—Awards—_

Well. At least he knows he’s come to the right place. Shoving aside all incredulity for the time being, Jared gets back up the stairs, throws his hand on the brass doorknob and flings the door wide open.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting. But it wasn’t this.

Jared swivels his head around like a disappointed kid at the Humane Society—where are all the cute wriggly puppies up for adoption? What’s with the balding pug and the half-shaven collie and why does everything smell like poo? Except in this case, it isn’t the forlorn animals Jared’s disappointed at, it’s at how… _normal_ everything looks, considering it’s all, you know. Made of magic and stuff.

The lobby looks just as big as it does from outside (damn it, Harry Potter…those _liars_ ), and inside, the floor’s made of dusty tiled marble with nondescript paintings adorning the nondescript walls. Between two corridors sits a receptionist’s desk with a corded phone and computer on it and post-its stuck all over. Nobody’s there right now. Sure, there’s a big, giant clock hanging on the wall behind it but it’s just—it looks like a _school_ clock, all functionality and tight-fisted budgets. On the far wall is a row of three brass elevators that might’ve looked grand at one time, but are kind of scuffed and dented now.

So, this is the place that holds the secret to Romance. The big answer to the Inner Workings of True Love…and it all takes place in an office building on Wilcox Avenue on the outskirts of Santa Monica. An office building with floors that need mopping and—he looks back to the empty receptionist’s desk—is understaffed too, apparently.

There’s something poetic in this, but Jared could care less. He just wants to find _Jensen_ already.

Jared starts by picking a corridor and marching down, eyes roving over everything in sight for a clue as he hopes for something awesome to happen again, like when the banner—or hell, the entire _building_ —had appeared out of thin air. 

But ten minutes later, after staring into landscape paintings and smudges on the wall that reveal little other than their amazing soporific power, Jared moves along until he’s at the back of the hallway. Here, he has the choice of going through a door or making a left.

 _Hmm…_ Jared scratches his chin. Then he sticks his finger in his mouth and holds it up to the air.

Unfortunately this isn’t a cave and Jensen doesn’t make wind—Jared snickers—so he puts his hand back down. He thinks about trying the elevators, maybe checking each floor at a time, when something rumbles through the wall on the right and echoes loudly into the deserted hallway. It sounds like…

Jared inches closer to the white plaster wall and cocks his ear to listen properly. There it goes again—it sounds like laughter. And applause. And then in a crystalline moment, Jared recalls the writing on that banner outside: _Annual Bureau of…whatever Awards!_

That must be where everybody is! Jared makes a beeline for the closest set of double doors, quickly scanning the brass placard that reads _Olympus Room – Back Entrance_ before pushing in. Immediately hit with both darkness and the delicious smells of a catered lunch, Jared shuts his eyes and pulls a Toucan Sam, sniffing the air as he sweeps his hands in front of him lest he trip over and break something (which wouldn’t be a first).

Jared’s eyes eventually adjust and he finds himself blinking in the anemic light that’s coming from somewhere up front. He must be backstage or something, judging from all the expensive-looking equipment lying around. But hey, even better; this way Jared can probably get a good look at the crowd and if Jensen had been telling the truth before—as all evidence seems to point (scream) towards—that’s precisely where Mr. Cupid-Himself is gonna be.

 _Yes!_ Jared cheers inwardly. His week-long cloud of gloom is clearing up by the second, parting aside for something that feels a little bit like—dare he think it?—a ray of _hope_. If Jensen isn’t a big fat liar then that means…

_“…and if you believe me, that’s great. I’ll, um.” Jensen darts his eyes around. “Buy you dinner or something—”_

All of a sudden, _right_ next to Jared a tall speaker thunders out an introduction to something called the Highest-Grossing Cupid. Jared’s hand flies up to cover his ears but in his haste to distance himself from a busted eardrum, he trips over a wire and stumbles through a black curtain he hadn’t even known was there. Still cradling his ringing ear, Jared shakes his head a little and looks up to see where he is. 

Standing in front of him, is Jensen. Not that Jared can really see anything in this pathetic lighting, but that black silhouette of a profile—those freaking collagen lips—could only belong to Jensen.

Now that he’s actually found the guy, Jared’s excitement is barely containable. He side-steps to get a better look and when the light edges over Jensen’s body, Jared’s mind silently implodes. If he thought he Jensen looked good before—the threadbare hem of Jensen’s shirt rides up against his wrist, jeans tugged low from the pull of his thumbs through his belt loops, exposing a glowing strip of smooth skin—Versace ain’t got nothing on an old university tee and snug pair of jeans.

Through the sheer awesomeness of Jared’s willpower, he pries his eyes away long enough to look up before finally noticing Jensen’s troubled frown. _I can fix that,_ he thinks giddily as he steps forward—

“—Patrick?” Jensen calls out.

Jared freezes as he wonders, _Who the fuck is Patrick?_ And why would Jensen be waiting for a guy named Patrick backstage? He opens his mouth to demand answers when just then, something causes Jared to pause.

He can’t put his finger on it, but there’s something off about Jensen’s face, his body language—the sad excuse for lighting here paints his features with more shadows than it does actual visibility, so Jared creeps forward until he’s standing just a few yards away, squinting all to hell in order to figure out what it _is_ that’s…

Jensen gasps—soft but sharp. His full lips part and then—it’s the weirdest thing, they _indent._ Like there’s a hand pressed over his mouth but Jared’s straining his eyes as hard as he can, and there’s _nothing there._ There’s nothing there, until he remembers...

_…Amorous—Affairs—Awards…_

Jared remembers the banner; remembers staring straight at it for awhile before it’d appeared to him, like he had to be _looking_ for it first. His gaze instantly flicks to the empty space in front of Jensen and inexorably, like a liquid cascade of muted color, there’s a man.

There’s a man holding, kissing Jensen, and Jensen’s kissing him back.


	5. Chapter 5

Jensen’s ass is getting numb from sitting on the floor so long. Said numb ass is telling him to stop moping like a goddamned pussy and to get the fuck up. Normally Jensen wouldn’t take orders from such a rude voice but whatever, the ceremony’s over, and he’s hid here long enough that in all likelihood Jeff’s well on his way back to the hotel or wherever it is he’s staying at. By now there’s little chance of Jensen bumping into Jeff, only to embarrass himself by begging Jeff to take him back because while his hormones are screaming _Go for it already!_ , his brain’s tsk-ing and wagging its finger, saying stuff like how it wouldn’t be fair to Jeff, he’s not over Jared, blah blah blah. 

Jensen wonders if his body parts have always ordered him around like this. Isn’t that a sign of like, schizophrenia or something?

Whatever; Jensen’s ass is officially yelling at him now by sending uncomfortable prickles over his skin so he stands up, feeling his years in his back and knees as they _pop-pop_ and when he’s standing upright, he nearly falls over again from the blood rush to his head. 

_Gotta go find the guys,_ he thinks resignedly, trudging towards the front of the stage. Jensen’s feeling pretty abysmal though and the prospect of going home and sleeping is the only thing that’s even remotely cheering him up right now. Yeah, he’ll make up an excuse before they rope him into celebrating at a bar somewhere, where he’ll just infect his friends’ moods like mono.

Jensen gets to the deserted stage and finds the whole room pretty much empty. He plops back down on his butt, legs idly swinging over the edge as he spots his friends and beckons them over.

“Hey guys,” he says as they trickle to the front of the ballroom. Jensen has his exit line thought out already, he just needs to fluff up the context before using it. “Great job tonight. So uh, you know those cheese-stuffed jalapenos—”

“Yeah, they were fricking awesome,” Mike jumps in, his eyes lighting up. Tom follows in behind and smiles benignly at him.

“We could tell you liked them, Mike. You ate like, four of them off my plate,” Tom says adoringly as he slips his hand into Mike’s back pocket and tugs him up until they’re hip-to-hip. Mike’s fair skin delicately pinks.

“They were really spicy and…uh…” Jensen trails off. He can’t remember his line. He settles for, “What the fuck is your hand doing on Rosenbaum’s ass?”

Tom’s complexion outstrips Mike’s in the race to a brick-red blush as he sheepishly slides his hand out and moves it up to rest on the soft indent of Mike’s waist. “What do you mean, Jensen?” he asks embarrassedly.

“I _mean…_ ” Jensen stares incredulously at Tom’s fingers as they fondle the fabric of Mike’s suit jacket.

“It’s disgusting, I know,” Chad says as he swaggers up from behind. He slaps his palms down on the varnished stage, hoists himself up and plants his ass down next to Jensen. “They’ve been like that all week. Be _glad_ you don’t have to come to work anymore; the first and third elevators are officially desecrated.” Chad shudders.

Jensen’s still oddly mesmerized by Tom’s fingers, where they’re now slipping down Mike’s hipbone. He doesn’t even want to _think_ about where they’re trying to migrate. Jensen snaps his eyes back up to Tom face, blurting “What happened to _Kristin?_ ”

“Huh? What about her?” Tom asks, tipping his head to the side like an idiot pretty boy—oh wait. Jensen inwardly snickers.

“I thought you guys got together,” he says.

“ _Tom_ ,” Mike hisses. “I thought you said Jenny knew about us!”

“I thought he did!”

…Oh. _Oh_ , okay. Apparently Jensen’s put two and two together to make five. “Never mind, guys,” he hastily says. “Congratulations on, um…” Jensen looks down and quickly points at their statuettes. “Your awards.”

“Thanks,” Mike says distractedly as he pries off Tom’s wandering hand and grips it in his own.

The air sifts through shades of awkwardness until, thankfully, Chris strolls into the empty ballroom from one of the main doors, Kristin and Kristin in tow. “Look what I found,” Chris smiles, presenting the two Muses who are snug in each arm.

“Is _everybody_ here getting laid except me?” Jensen gripes. He lets himself tip backwards until he’s lying flat on the stage, arms spread out like a gravity-challenged crucifixion.

“Don’t be such a drama queen, geez,” K-Bell complains, reaching forward to grab one of Jensen’s ankles. She yanks down hard until he yelps and slides down onto the floor, landing heavily on both feet. Jensen glares at her.

“Now now, none of that,” Kristin admonishes. “It’s Valentine’s Day. Show a little love.”

There’s a collection groan from the Cupids—even Jensen winces a little, even though he’s no longer obligated to detest the word “love”. But c’mon, a habit like that’s not going away anytime soon.

“Everybody knows all V-Day’s good for is money.” Chad lifts his fingers up and rubs them together, saying in a singsong voice, “ _Bonuses._ “

There’s an instantaneous stir of optimism through the immortals at the thought of Valentine’s Day bonuses. Even Jensen smiles a little as he thinks about the check arriving in his mail any day now, but before he can ask Mike which day they’re issuing out the checks, he sees him and Tom backing out of the circle.

“I think we’re gonna take off now,” Tom says, his touchy-feely hand still firmly ensconced within Mike’s. Jensen can feel his lunch stirring in his stomach, and oh yeah, that reminds him—

“Me too,” Jensen tacks on, pasting a grimace onto his face as he recites, “I don’t think the spiciness of the jalapenos agreed with my stomach, so I should best be getting home”. Other than a few strange looks, Jensen doesn’t get any opposition from his friends so he gives a feeble wave, makes a show of clutching his stomach, then turns around and limps towards one of the front doors.

He’s got one foot halfway through the exit when he hears Chris shout after him. “I almost forgot. I saw your guy,” he says. Jensen frowns in confusion.

“What guy? Jeff? Look, I don’t want to talk about it. Just give me a day or two and you can hear the whole sordid thing later.”

Chris blinks. “Wait, you talked to Jeff?” It’s obvious Chris wants to press the issue but Jensen must be making a face or something because he quickly backs off. “Never mind. I wasn’t talking about Jeff. I meant that mortal, Jared.”

Jensen was well on his way to zoning out, his bed at home seeming more and more like the proverbial light at the end of a tunnel, when Chris uttered the magic word. “Jared?” Jensen repeats.

“Yeah. I don’t know how he got into the building but he was storming through the halls and mowing everybody down ‘cause he couldn’t see any of us. I guess you were the only with the faulty cloak,” Chris says with the beginnings of a smirk but he catches sight of Jensen’s eyebrow raised in warning—and tamps it down with an overly serious expression. “Anyway, maybe you should go see what’s up.”

“Okay,” Jensen agrees. When Chris keeps staring at him, he adds meaningfully, “I’ll catch you later.”

“Oh,” Chris says. “Yeah. See you later.” He heads back into the ballroom but before Jensen can start his pursuit, Chris doubles back and adds, “If you need a place to crash tonight, my couch has your name and vomit stains all over it.” 

There’s a reason Kane’s his boy. A gooey sensation squishes into Jensen’s ribcage, but he quickly scrubs it out with a manful grunt of acknowledgement. 

After the door to the Olympus Room swings shut, Jensen jogs towards the lobby. When a careful scan of the room reveals no floppy-haired giant, he frowns and picks up his speed, dashing out the door to head straight for his RAV4. He’ll get a better vantage point from the sky—the cloaking device and flight enabler come standard on all immortal-certified vehicles so Jensen can use it to scope out the roads for Jared’s cream-colored truck.

 _Damn it, Jared, what the hell are you thinking?_ Jensen thinks as he slams the gearshift into flight and takes off. The car settles into a purr as it levels out on the airborne lanes and Jensen pats the wheel lovingly; this baby’s sped him through job after job, not letting him down once. All he needs now is luck on his side to find Jared. 

_Please, Lady Luck, don’t be such a bitch today,_ Jensen implores, even if it’s asking a lot considering that the last time they’d met, she’d slapped him across the face for being such a smartass. But it’s _important_ this time so Jensen sends up prayer anyway.

\-----

 

The sun’s setting. Or it’s about to set, or maybe it’s already done setting—Jared can never tell, what with all the tall buildings in LA, but the point is, is that it’s _hot pink_ out. The sky looks like a canvas for a drunken painter from the 80’s.

Soon though, the neon glow of sun and smog fades away to a neutral blue. The streetlamps flicker on, even though it’s still bright enough to be unnecessary. Doesn’t matter—it’ll be dark soon.

It’s getting chilly. Yes, even in Southern California. It’s still winter, after all.

Jared picks at one of the pills on his sweatshirt. It comes off easily and he flicks it aside, then sets to work on the next. This one’s a fighter though—it refuses to detach from its synthetic thread and eventually Jared gives up. He glares at the little pill, and the loose string of thread still attached to it. This just isn’t Jared’s night.

He gives a long-suffering sigh and slouches on the metal bench, legs splayed out until he’s spilling out of the plaza and onto the sidewalk. Not that it matters; everything on La Brea closes by 6:00 or 7:00 o’ clock, so there’s no one here right now. The streets are deserted.

Or at least Jared had thought so. But behind him, he hears what sounds like rubber soles against concrete; quiet footfalls that decrease in speed as they approach. He’d turn around to look, but not tonight. Tonight, the effort of craning his neck seems like an impossible feat.

The owner of the footsteps halts behind him. Jared can hear tightly-controlled breathing, like the person's trying to catch his breath, but silently. _Not fooling me,_ Jared thinks. _Nobody’s fooling me tonight._

This goes on for awhile, and Jared starts to get irritated. He hopes it isn’t some serial killer that’s standing there, but knowing his luck, it probably is. Jared pulls his knees in and sits up, readying himself to snap at the person who won’t stop freaking _breathing_ so loudly, but the complaint dies in his throat when the guy circles around the bench and sits down next to him.

Jared closes his mouth. Then opens it—decides against it—and snaps it shut once more. Finding himself uncomfortable with how close they’re sitting, he scoots over a few inches. The cold, stark metal bench quickly leeches all the heat from the right side of his ass, and he longs for the body-warmed strip of the three inches he’d just abandoned.

Next to him, Jensen leans back in his seat, slipping down almost a foot as he makes himself comfortable. In that movement, Jared can smell Jensen’s cologne, or deodorant, or whatever it is—the scent is indescribable, like some mash-up of Old Spice and earth, and warm. He smells like—Jared inwardly shrugs—Jensen smells like _magic._

Although the silence that stretches between them seems like it oughta be awkward, it isn’t. Sure, there are questions, answers, and explanations running through their minds, and the air’s buzzing with things unsaid, but in the meantime the lack of urgency is kind of comforting. The calm before the storm, if you will. Jared goes back to picking at the stubborn lint ball on his sweatshirt.

After he’s pulled out over an inch of black string, Jensen finally says, “You’ll make a hole, doing that.” Jared abruptly stops. He ventures a cautious look in Jensen’s direction, though he adamantly avoids eye contact. There are goose bumps on Jensen’s arm.

Jared wants to rub them away, and Jensen isn’t even making a move to do it himself; he just sits there, hands loosely curled into fists on his knees while the baby fuzz on his arms stand straight up, trying their damnedest to keep his skin warm. Jared settles for choking out, “And here I was, thinking maybe you weren’t a liar after all.”

Oops. That wasn’t supposed to come out. Jensen swivels around, his foot knocking into Jared’s. “What do you mean?” he asks.

Oh, that’s rich. Jared snorts derisively, big _whuff_ coming out of his nose. Just last week Jensen was asking him to be his boyfriend (not in those words exactly, but Jared can read between the lines), and today he’d had his tongue down some other guy’s throat. And he has the gall to sound confused?

Jensen frowns at Jared’s _Can you believe this guy?_ face, so he snaps, “You’re acting like an asshole. Again.”

Jared splutters, “Me? How am _I_ the asshole?”

“Uh, let’s see,” Jensen says, diving into argument all too eagerly as he ticks his fingers off, “One: for weeks, you won’t leave me alone. You drive me up the wall by being freaking _everywhere_ , like you’d _planned_ it or something. And then the one time I agree to hang out with you, you freaking _kiss me_ —and then you ditch my ass at the restaurant. I had to fucking call my friend for a ride back to my car.”

Jared frowns. He hadn’t thought about that.

“Then,” Jensen continues heatedly, “Since I can’t stop thinking about you all the fucking time, I finally muster up the courage to tell you the truth about my life, which for the record, I’ve _never_ done with any other mortal, and then you ditch my ass in the parking lot.”

“Well, you have to admit—“

“ _ **Third,**_ ” Jensen steamrolls on, angrily popping his ring finger out to join the other two. Jared eyes them in alarm; at this rate, Jensen’s gonna pull a muscle. Jensen barks, “I lose my fucking job over you. My _job_ , Jared, because I had to go and fall for your bony ass.”

Jared darts his eyes up, saying, “Wait, you fell for—“

“And today. Today I find out you showed up at the award ceremony—which I don’t even know how you _got in_ to—and then you ditch me there, too. And now, after I’ve spent hours hunting you down all over fucking LA, through fucking _rush hour_ traffic, now you sit here being a prick to me.”

Jared stares at him. Jensen takes a long, deep breath, and it looks like he’s done. For now, at least. “Uh…when you put it like that…” Jared manages. _God, you sound like an idiot_ , he berates himself. He clears his throat and tries again. “Wait, so you fell for me?” 

Jensen blinks in surprise, matching Jared’s own saucer-sized eyes. _Shit_ , that totally wasn’t what he was gonna say; he was going to ask about Jensen losing his job but, it was like his mouth had it’s own idea of how this was going down. Jared hastily goes on, “I mean. So what, you like, _like_ me? But you just—you act like you _hate_ me—you just called me a, um…” Jared screws his lips shut, cutting his losses as the jumbled words uselessly fall to the ground. _Well, that went well._ Jensen isn’t saying anything, just blinking at him with those eyelashes, up and down like a goddamned coconut fan blowing a fucking gale into Jared’s face. Jared rubs his eyes and tries to figure out what he just said.

Jensen looks like he’s doing the same. “Come again?” he eventually asks.

Shit. Jared’s quickly running out of ideas, and the way Jensen’s got his tongue between his lips— _just do something with it, lick your lips or fucking tuck it back in,_ Jared panics—is not helping him form a cohesive argument, here. But when Jensen (finally) stretches his tongue out to sweep across his lower lip, Jared _remembers_. He remembers that not an hour ago, some _asshole_ got to taste that tongue, that mouth. Maybe more. _Jesus fucking Christ…_ Latching onto that growing flame of indignity, Jared goes on the offensive. He snaps, “If you’re so head over heels for me, then who the fuck were you _making out_ with backstage?”

The expression on Jensen’s face is priceless. “How did—you were _there?_ ”

“Yeah, I was there. I’m sorry, did I intrude on your little _lie_ just now? Was I supposed to sit here and think I was the only one for you, when you were running around kissing _Patrick?_ ” Yeah, that’ll show him. Judging from Jensen’s bewildered face, he’s totally wondering how Jared found out all that info. Yeah, well, Jared’s just that fucking sneaky.

“Look, Jared, you didn’t stick around long enough.”

Right, like Jared needs more proof that Jensen’s a lying, cheating McCheater. “What, so I could watch you guys _fuck?_ No thank you.”

“Dude—“ Jensen says impatiently, eyebrows arched in neat little swoops. Jared wants to smack them off.

“Who was he, anyway? Your boss or something? Were you trying to fuck him so you could get your job back—“

“ _Jared,_ shut the fuck up already,” Jensen leaps forward to clamp his icy hand on the back of Jared’s neck and violently jerks him sideways—shit, Jared didn’t even _think_ about what he was saying, but he knows he fucked up from the way Jensen’s digging his blunt fingernails in, and now he feels like a complete bastard—a bastard who’s about to get the shit kicked out of him by an immortal god who knows how use a pistol.

Jared’s toppled over, practically in Jensen’s lap when Jensen grabs his jaw with a freezing grip. Jared braces himself for the face-check he’s about to get—

Jensen twists Jared’s face up so that they’re face-to-face. He’s staring right at Jared’s mouth. Jared gets a _split second_ to realize what’s happening before Jensen butts forward and smashes his lips down over his.

_Jesus. Jesus Christ._

Jared’s ass is still cold, except for the one butt cheek digging into Jensen’s thigh. That one’s warm. But Jensen’s hands feel like fucking five-pronged icicles branded onto his face and neck, and Jared vaguely wonders if their skin will rip off when they part—hands so mind-numbingly cold, it burns like frostbite where Jensen’s touching him. And his mouth… _Jesus_ , Jensen’s mouth…

Though Jensen’s lips are cool, kind of wet and cold, his tongue— _God, Jensen’s tongue_ —lightly swirls over Jared’s lips, dipping over the ridges of his teeth and delving deeper to obscenely slide against his own—Jensen’s tongue feels like it’s _scorching_ him, from the inside out. It’s the strangest sensation, this kiss. Jared can’t decide whether they’re freezing to death or torching each other down, but it’s one or the other. It ain’t anything in between.

His hands automatically move up to skim across Jensen’s bare arms. Jared can feel the goose bumps lingering there but now, now he gets to do this: he gets to press into their kiss, swing his leg over Jensen’s until he’s straddling him. He’s snugly seated on Jensen’s thighs, their mouths never parting but for quick, gasping breaks for air. Jared _gets to do this_. He squeezes Jensen’s biceps in his hands—feels Jensen shiver beneath him—and rubs up and down, trying to warm him up with his palms, his weight, his moist breath on Jensen’s convulsing throat…

“Jare…” Jensen pants. “Jared. _Jared._ ”

“What?” he mumbles against Jensen’s neck. “Mmbusy.”

“Jared— _fuck_ —you’re...you’re…”

Jared sucks, _hard_ , grinning evilly inside when he feels Jensen’s hips buck up beneath him.

Oh, fuck. That’s a _hard on_ under Jared’s ass. _Fuck_. His mouth still nibbling on Jensen’s soft, soft skin, Jared groans and clamps down as he sucks in another mouthful of blood-hot flesh.

“ _Shit, Jared!_ Shit…shit, _ow_ —“ Jensen yelps, plastering himself against the back of the bench. “Sorry, but you, you were digging into my stomach.”

Oh, seriously? Shit, that’s embarrassing. “I was?” Jared asks, looking down at his crotch.

“Oh, I didn’t mean—“ Jensen blushes as Jared tracks the progress of the flush with fascinated eyes. Seriously, Jensen the Hard-Ass is _blushing_. Oh _God_ , Jared wants to adopt him, _now_. 

“That’s not what I meant,” Jensen coughs. Jared’s eyes inexorably slide down from pink ears to hard, bunched muscles that stretch across Jensen’s chest and arms as he rubs the back of his neck. Jared’s throat dries. He’ll adopt Jensen, but only after they fuck.

Mind firmly rolling in the gutter now, Jared jumps when he feels Jensen’s hand grope into the pouch of his sweatshirt and root around, Jared feeling slightly violated. Finally he gets a hold of the card that’s nestled inside and struggles with it, the corners stubbornly snagging on fabric before Jensen yanks it out along with a little shower of foil bits.

“God, I think one of the corners on this thing sliced a hole into my stomach,” Jensen says, holding the card up to the light to look at it.

“Maybe I should check it out,” Jared suggests hopefully, eyes sliding south as his fingers inch beneath the hem of Jensen’s thin, thin T-shirt. _God, **nipples,**_ his mouth waters, staring at the hard, fabric-covered nubs.

Jensen isn’t cooperating though. He’s examining the card—God, it’s just a stupid card. Pay attention already.

“What is this?” Jensen asks, flipping the front open to look inside, where there’s flakes of red foil stuck in the leftover glue there. There’s a heart-shaped hole on the cover, where the candy used to poke through.

“It’s just a stupid card,” Jared says, grumpily sitting back when it’s clear Jensen doesn’t have his _priorities_ straight. He makes a quick grab for it, but Jensen just snatches it back with cat-like (Cupid-like?) dexterity.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Jensen says, attention firmly glued to it. “Why do you have this?”

Jared huffs. If he’d known that buying the card was going to prevent him from getting some quality time with Jensen’s mouth, he never would’ve touched the goddamned thing. “It’s just…” Jared crosses his arms. Okay, he’ll admit to himself the real reason why he’d bought it—not that it’d even been a _conscious decision,_ really—but he’s not about to share it with Jensen. “It’s stupid. Can we just throw it away or something?”

“No, I want to know why you have this,” Jensen pushes, flipping it around so that it’s facing Jared who automatically reaches out to hold the bottom, looking down at the picture with resignation.

It’s a picture of a… well, it seems cheesy now, but it’s a picture of a Cupid. Not the real kind—of course, Jared hadn’t even known there was a “real kind” until a few hours ago—but it’s a drawing of a squishy, bare-assed baby with fluffy wings and a bow in hand, and he’s shooting a goofy cartoon girl through the chest over a caption that reads: _I’m hit!_ The arrow goes all the way through her body, heart-shaped squirts of blood coming out the back—it’s sick, really.

Jared idly flips the card open; the inside is simple, it just says _Will you be my Valentine?_ in wiggly red font. “It’s stupid,” Jared repeats.

“Why do you have it?” Jensen asks impatiently.

“God, I just… I don’t know, I think I might’ve, um.” Jared looks up hopefully, but Jensen’s expression clearly says _Go on._ “Jesus, alright already. I kindofboughtitforyou,” Jared quickly blurts as he shuts the card and looks around, searching in vain for a trash can he can dump it in.

Jensen swipes it out of his hand though, only to angrily raise it up to Jared’s face and demand, “Is this some kinda joke or something?” He points to the naked baby. “Is that supposed to be me?”

“No, no. I mean—Jesus, Jensen, I don’t know. I hardly even _looked_ at it. I just… saw it, and thought of you,” Jared grimaces. “Chill out already.”

“If it’s for me, then where’s the candy?” Jensen asks, flipping the card open and poking his finger through the heart-shaped die cut.

“Um. I ate it,” Jared says uncertainly. _God,_ this conversation _sucks._ Why are they even still talking?

Jensen searches his face as he lower the stupid fucking card, _finally_. His green eyes calmly take in Jared’s embarrassment and the self-conscious shrug of Jared’s shoulders. His face remains unreadable as he sets the card down on the bench.

“Quit it,” Jared complains. “Quit starin’ at me—“

Jensen rocks forward and catches his open mouth with his own.

 _God, took long enough._ Jared lets his eyelids fall closed as he sways in, cupping Jensen’s rough cheeks between his hands. He can feel Jensen smile against him.

\-----

 

Even though Jensen never got to have the candy, he knows it was dark chocolate. He knows because he can taste it on the inside of Jared’s mouth.

When they part—slowly, teasingly—Jared smiles so fucking huge it hurts Jensen’s eyes to look at it from this close. Neither can he look away, though, so instead he says, “Get off me already. I think you’ve punctured my legs with your bony ass.”

Jared happily obliges, hopping off and smothering Jensen from the side instead. Suddenly Jared’s mouth is right up next to him, Jared’s sticky sweet mouth brushing over the cold shell of Jensen’s ear, and he shivers.

He can hear the slick opening of Jared’s mouth, the sound instantly encouraging his dick from half-hard to Fucking Interested. Jared whispers, “So. Tell me the truth. Do you have any wings?”

Oh, for chrissakes—“Dude, I ain’t got any fucking wings,” Jensen grumbles, standing up from the metal bench and dragging Jared up (and up…he’s gonna have to get used to this). It’s almost midnight now, and it’s _cold_. Jared might have the hottest mouth and hottest ass, but his paws are freaking ice cubes.

“I ain’t got wings, nobody goes to work naked unless they wanna get fired, we stopped using _bows and arrows_ by the 10th fucking century—“ Jensen explains disdainfully as he marches towards his car, dragging Jared along.

At first Jared looks confused about where they’re going, but when he catches sight of Jensen’s RAV4, his bemused smile turns wicked. Jensen hauls the giant kid up and slams him against the passenger door, trying to rattle that cat-got-the-canary grin off his face, but Jared only looks more smug. Jared says, silky smooth and low, “I take it you’re gonna teach me how a real Cupid does it?”

 _ **Fuck.**_ Jensen’s brain short-circuits for a moment, but eventually he manages to growl out _Yeah_ before unlocking the door and pushing Jared inside, shoving long arms and legs in after him.

Jared puts his hand on the inner handle, about to close the door when he pokes his head out to say, “Too bad. Wings are kind of hot.”

Before Jensen can swear at him, Jared yanks the door shut, his face cheekily beaming up at him through the window.

 _Damn it_ —Jensen stomps around to the driver side, determined to turn Jared into sleepy, post-coital manageability when they get home.

Jesus though, really? _Wings?_ Fucking Hallmark.

 

**_fin._ **


End file.
